BOOKS  BY  SAM  WALTER  FOSS. 


Back  Country  Poems. 

With  12  Full-page  Illustrations.    Cloth 

Wbiffs  from  Wild  Meadows. 

Fully  Illustrated.    Cloth.    Gilt  Top.    Boxed 

Dreams  in  Homespun. 

Cloth.    Gilt  Top.    Boxed        ... 


$1.50 


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LEE  AND  SHEPARD,  PUBLISHERS, 
BOSTON. 


SONGS  OF  WAR  AND  PEACE 


BY 

SAM  WALTER  FOSS 

AUTHOR  OF    "  BACK    COUNTRY    POEMS,"    "  WHIFFS    FROM   WILD    MEADOWS, 
"  DREAMS    IN    HOMESPUN,"    ETC. 


BOSTON 
LEE  AND  SHEPARD  PUBLISHERS 

IO     MILK     STREET 
l899 


MOST  of  the  pieces  in  this  book  are  used  through  the 
courtesy  of  The  Nciv  York  Sun,  the  McClure  Syndicate, 
The  Independent,  Leslie's  Weekly,  Puck,  Ju^e,  The 
Golden  A'u/e,  the  New  England  Magazine,  and  The 
Arena. 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  BY  LBR  AND  SHEPAKD 


All  rights  reserved 


SONGS  OP  WAR  AND  PEACE 


TYPOGRAPHY    BY   C.   J.    PETERS   &   SON,  BOSTON. 
PKRSSWORK    BY    BERWICK   ft   SMITH. 


URl 


TO 


Who  will  write  the  best  song,  who  will  faint  the  best  picture, 

Whose  music  is  best? 
He  who  understands  man,  knows  the  heart  of  him,  loves  him 

Above  all  the  rest. 

Put  stars  in  your  song  and  put  skies  in  your  picture, 

Put  mountains  and  seas  ; 
But  one  heart-throb  that's  tuned  to  the  heart  of  a  brother 

Is  greater  than  these. 

Man  first  in  your  song  ;  man  first,  and  then  mountains, 

And  the  woods  and  the  seas  ; 
And  know,  while  you  picture  the  star  groups  of  midnight, 

He  is  greater  than  these. 

What  is  art,  what  is  art  and  the  artisfs  achievement, 

Its  purpose  and  plan  ? 
'  Tis  the  message  that's  sent  from  the  heart  of  the  artist 

To  the  heart  of  a  man. 


CONTENTS 


War I 

The  Dialogue  of  the  Spirits 4 

Sam  Pasco  and  Napoleon 7 

The  World-Smiths 9 

The  Shadigandian  Reformer 12 

Our  Little  Back  Star 15 

Pioneering      .                   *° 

Swipesey,  The  Missionary 21 

The  Coming  Captains 23 

The  Wide-Swung  Gates 25 

The  Song  of  the  Cannon         .         .         .        .         .         .29 

A  Recipe  for  Success 31 

The  Song  of  a  River 34 

A  Brook  and  a  Life         .         .  - 3^ 

The  Brook  and  the  Boy 4* 

Farragut  to  Dewey 43 

Two  Brides 44 

Survivals 4° 

v 


vi  Contents 

PACK 

The  Awakening  of  Uncle  Sam         .....  50 

Peter,  the  Orthodox .53 

The  Wordless  Voice 55 

The  Yeast  of  Evolution 58 

The  Pulling-Through  of  Todlum 61 

The  Dome  of  Pictures     .......  65 

When  He  has  an  Idea  in  His  Head         ....  67 

Uncanonized  Saints 69 

The  Higher  Carelessness          ......  72 

Jupiter  Pluvius,  Jr. 77 

Mother  Asia  .........  80 

Grassvale's  Great  Man    .......  82 

My  Properties 85 

Uncle  Sam's  Spring  Cleaning           .....  87 

The  Only  Man  in  the  World 89 

The  Ruse  of  John  P.  Jock 90 

The  Friendly,  Flowing  Savage 92 

The  Pageant 95 

The  Tree  Lover 97 

When  Peter  sang -99 

A  Thinker  on  Thinkers 102 

The  Song  of  the  Hoe 105 

Tom  Phelan's  Haunted  Barn 108 

An  Art  Critic         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .112 

The  Song  of  Dewey's  Guns 115 


Contents  vn 

PAGE 

The  Infidel 117 

Listen  to  Yourself .119 

The  Classics  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .121 

The  Twins     .         :         .         .         .         .         .         .         .123 

The  Warming  of  the  Hands    ......     128 

The  Pedigree  of  the  Dollars 131 

On  the  Door-knob 133 

An  Inspector  ........      135 

The  Man  Who  Understood  Man 138 

A  Thought 141 

1898  and  1562        .         . '  142 

A  Contrast 144 

The  Blossoming  of  Igdrasil     .         .         .         .         .  145 

The  Voices  of  the  Tides 146 


SONGS  OF  WAR  AND  PEACE 


WAR 


I  AM  WAR.     The  upturned  eyeballs  of  piled  dead 
men  greet  my  eye, 

And  the  sons  of  mothers  perish  —  and  I  laugh  to 
see  them  die  — 

Mine  the  demon  lust  for  torture,  mine  the  devil  lust 
for  pain, 

And  there  is  to  me  no  beauty  like  the  pale  brows  of 
the  slain ! 

But  my  voice  calls  forth  the  godlike  from  the  slug 
gish  souls  at  ease, 

And  the  hands  that  toyed  with  ledgers  scatter  thun 
ders  round  the  seas; 

And  the   lolling  idler,  wakening,  measures  up  to 
God's  own  plan, 

And  the  puling  trifler  greatens  to  the  stature  of  a 
man. 

i 


2  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

When  I  speak  the  centuried  towers  of  old  cities  melt 
in  smoke, 

And  the  fortressed  ports  sink  reeling  at  my  far- 
aimed  thunder  stroke; 

And  an  immemorial  empire  flings  its  last  flag  to  the 
breeze, 

Sinking  with  its  splintered  navies  down  in  the  un- 
pitying  seas. 

But  the  blind  of  sight  awaken  to  an  unimagined  day, 

And  the  mean  of  soul  grow  conscious  there  is  great 
ness  in  their  clay; 

Where  my  bugle  voice  goes  pealing  slaves  grow  he 
roes  at  its  breath, 

And  the  trembling  coward  rushes  to  the  welcome 
arms  of  death. 

Pagan,  heathen,  and  inhuman,  devilish  as  the  heart 
of  hell, 

Wild  as  chaos,  strong  for  ruin,  clothed  in  hate  un 
speakable  — 

So  they  call  me  —  and  I  care  not  —  still  I  work  my 
waste  afar, 

Heeding  not  your  weeping  mothers  and  your  widows 
—  I  am  War ! 

But  your  soft-boned  men  grow  heroes  when  my  flam 
ing  eyes  they  see, 

And  I  teach  your  little  peoples  how  supremely  great 
they  be ; 


War  3 

Yea,  I  tell  them  of  the  wideness  of  the  soul's  un 
folded  plan, 

And  the  godlike  stuff  that's  moulded  in  the  making 
of  a  man. 

Ah,  the  godlike  stuff  that's  moulded  in  the  making 

of  a  man ! 
It  has  stood  my  iron  testing  since  this  strong  old 

world  began. 

Tell  me  not  that  men  are  weaklings,  halting  trem 
blers,  pale  and  slow  — 
There  is  stuff  to  shame  the  seraphs  in  the  race  of 

men  —  I  know. 
I  have  tested  them  by  fire,  and  I  know  that  man  is 

great, 
And  the  soul  of  man  is  stronger  than  is  either  death 

or  fate ; 
And  where'er  my  bugle  calls  them,  under  any  sun 

or  star, 
They  will  leap  with  smiling  faces  to  the  fire  test  of 

war. 


Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


THE  DIALOGUE  OF  THE  SPIRITS 


SAYS  the  Spirit  of  To-day  to  the  Spirit  of  All  Time, 

"  Have  you  seen  my  big  machines? 
My  fire  steeds,  thunder-shuttlecocks  that  dart  from 

clime  to  clime, 
Hear  the  lyrics  of  their  driving  rods,  the  modern 

chant  sublime  —  " 

Says  the  Spirit  of  To-day  to  the  Spirit  of  All  Time, 
"  Have  you  seen  my  big  machines? " 

"Hear  the  thunder  of  my  mills,"  says  the  Spirit  of 

To-day, 

"  Hear  my  harnessed  rivers  pant. 
Men  are  jockeys  with  the  lightnings,  and  they  drive 

them  where  they  may, 
They  are  bridlers  of  the  cataracts  that  dare  not  say 

them  nay, 
And  the  rivers  are  their  drudges,"  says  the  Spirit  of 

To-day. 
"  Hear  my  harnessed  rivers  pant. " 

Says  the  Spirit  of  All  Time  to  the  Spirit  of  To-day, 
"  Haste  and  let  your  work  go  on. 


The  Dialogue  of  the  Spirits  5 

Tap  the  fires  of  the  underworld  to  bake  your  bread, 
I  say; 

Belt  the  tides  to  sew  your  garments,  hitch  the  suns 
to  draw  your  sleigh." 

Says  the  Spirit  of  All  Time  to  the  Spirit  of  To 
day, 
"  Haste  and  let  your  work  go  on." 

"  But,"  says  the  Spirit  of  All  Time  to  the  Spirit  of 

To-day, 
"  Tell  us,  how  about  your  men  ? 

Shall  they,  like  live  automatons,  still  drudge  their 
lives  away, 

When  the  rivers,  tides,  and  lightnings  join  to  help 
them  on  their  way?  " 

Says  the  Spirit  of  All  Time  to  the  Spirit  of  To 
day, 
"  Tell  us,  how  about  your  men  ? 

"  Yes,  harness  every  river  above  the  cataract's  brink, 

And  then  unharness  man. 
To  earth's  reservoirs  of  fire  let  your  giant  shaftings 

sink, 
And  scourge  your  drudging  thunderbolts  —  but  give 

man  time  to  think; 
Throw  your  bridles  on  the  rivers,  curb  them  at  the 

cataract's  brink  — 
And  then  unharness  man." 


6  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

Says  the  Spirit  of  All  Time:  "  In  this  climax  of  the 

years 
Make  no  machine  of  man. 

Your  harnessed  rivers  panting  are  as  lyrics  in  my 
ears, 

And  your  jockeyed  lightnings  clattering  are  as  mu 
sic  of  the  spheres, 

But  'tis  well  that  you  remember,  in  this  climax  of 

the  years : 
Make  no  machine  of  man." 


Sam  Pasco  ami  Napoleon 


SAM  PASCO  AND  NAPOLEON 


NAPOLEON  took  Europe  and  tossed  down  toppling 
thrones, 

And  strewed  its  ghastly  hillsides  with  white  and 
bleaching  bones ; 

And  dandled  kings  like  puppets  and  made  his  world- 
uproar, 

And  played  his  battailous  music,  passed,  and  was 
heard  no  more. 

Sam  Pasco  took  a  run-down  farm,  a  run-down  farm, 

alas  ! 
Where  stretched  unbroken  solitudes  between  each 

spear  of  grass. 
And  moss  usurped  its  hillsides  and  flags  usurped 

its  meads, 
And  both  its  hills  and  meadows  were  a  tragedy  of 

weeds. 

Sam  Pasco's  hard  campaigning  !     Long  waged  the 

stubborn  fray  ; 
And  Sam  grew  bowed  and  battered,  and  Sam  grew 

seamed  and  gray  ; 


8  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

But  those  bald  hills  grew  green  with  grass,  and  ap 
ple-blossoms  fair 

Stormed,  as  with  storms  of  winter,  the  fragrant 
summer  air. 

Napoleon  took  Europe  and  played  his  mighty  game, 
And  sowed  its  fields  with  corpses  and  wrapped  its 

towns  in  flame. 
Sam  Pasco  took  his  run-down  farm   and  greened 

its  moss-gray  soil, 
And  one  small  plat  of  this  wide  earth  was  fairer 

through  his  toil. 

Sam  Pasco  and  Napoleon!     Wide  are  the  midnight 

skies, 
And  in  the  wideness  of  the  worlds  men  seem  of 

equal  size  ; 
And   from  some  star  may  each  look  down,   each 

stretch  his  phantom  arm, 
Napoleon  tow'rd  Austerlitz,  Sam  Pasco  tow'rd  his 

farm. 


The  World-Smiths 


THE    WORLD-SMITHS 


WHAT  is  this  iron  music 

Whose  strains  are  borne  afar? 
The  hammers  of  the  world-smiths 

Are  beating  out  a  star. 
They  build  our  old  world  over, 

Anew  its  mould  is  wrought, 
They  shape  the  plastic  planet 

To  models  of  their  thought. 
This  is  the  iron  music 

Whose  strains  are  borne  afar; 
The  hammers  of  the  world-smiths 

Are  beating  out  a  star. 

We  hear  the  whirling  sawmill 

Within  the  forest  deep; 
The  wilderness  is  clipped  like  wool, 

The  hills  are  sheared  like  sheep. 
Down  through  the  fetid  fenways 

We  hear  the  road  machine ; 
The  tangled  swamps  are  tonsured, 

The  marshes  combed  and  clean. 


io  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

We  see  the  sprouting  cities 
Loom  o'er  the  prairie's  rim, 

And  through  the  inland  hilltops 
The  ocean  navies  swim. 

Across  the  trellised  land-ways 

The  lifted  steamers  slide; 
Dry  shod  beneath  the  rivers 

The  iron  stallions  glide; 
Beneath  the  tunnelled  city 

The  lightning  chariots  flock, 
And  back  and  forth  their  freight  of  men 

Shoot  like  a  shuttlecock. 
The  moon-led  tides  are  driven  back, 

Their  waves  no  more  are  free, 
And  islands  rise  from  out  the  main 

And  cities  from  the  sea. 

We  see  the  mountain  river 

From  out  its  channel  torn 
And  wedded  to  the  desert 

That  Plenty  may  be  born ; 
We  see  the  iron  roadway 

Replace  the  teamer's  rut ; 
We  see  the  painted  village 

Grow  round  the  woodman's  hut. 
Beneath  the  baffled  oceans 

The  lightning  couriers  flee; 


Che  World-Smiths 

Across  the  sundering  isthmuses 
Is  mingled  sea  with  sea. 

Smiths  of  the  star  unfinished, 

This  is  the  work  for  you, 
To  hammer  down  the  uneven  world 

And  there  is  much  to  do. 
Scoop  down  that  beetling  mountain, 

And  raze  that  bulging  cape ; 
The  world  is  on  your  anvil, 

Now  smite  it  into  shape. 
What  is  this  iron  music, 

Whose  strains  are  borne  afar? 
The  hammers  of  the  world-smiths 

Are  beating  out  a  star. 


12  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


THE  SHADIGANDIAN  REFORMER 


I'M  a  moral  regulator,  and  I  feel  it  is  my  mission 
To  keep  my  fellow-citizens  from  travelling  to  perdi 
tion  ; 

I  feel  my  mission  in  my  bones,  I'm  made  to  regulate 
The  morals  of  my  fellow-men  and  keep  my  neigh 
bors  straight. 

I   hunt  for  sin  on  every  trail,  through  wood  and 

swamp  and  mire, 
And  when  I  drive  it  from  its  lair  I  lift  my  gun  and 

fire; 
I  hunt  the  sin  through  hidden  ways,  through  many 

a  covert  path, 
And  pulverize  the  sinner  with  the  thunder  of  my 

wrath. 

Born  was  I  in  a  sinful  age,  a  sinful  neighborhood  ; 
My  fellow-townsmen  all  were  bad,  and  not  a  soul 
was  good. 

So,  in  this  town  of  Shadigand,  when  I  was  young 
and  strong, 

I  told  the  Shadigandians  that  they  were  foul  with 
wrong. 


The  Sbadigandian  Reformer  13 

My  neighbors'  sins  filled  me  with  grief  almost  beyond 

control. 
The  weight  of  Shadigandian  sin  was  heavy  on  my 

soul. 

"  I  '11  make  this  place  as  virtuous  as  any  in  the  land, 
I'll  make,"  said  I,  "  a  virtuous  town  this  town  of 

Shadigand. 

"  The  time  will  come,"  I  said,  "  twill  come  when  sin 

will  disappear, 
When  in  this  town  will  not  be  found  a  single  sinner 

here." 
And  I  have  done  the  thing  I  said  —  a  work  of  some 

renown  — 
For  now,  to-day,  there  is  not  left  one  sinner  in  the 

town. 

I'd  meet  men  on  the  highways  and  I'd  show  them 

they  were  bad, 

And  give  them  all  a  catalogue  of  all  the  sins  they  had ; 
I'd  greet  them  in  the  fields  at  work  and  look  them 

in  the  eye, 
And  cry  aloud  and  spare  them  not  and  smite  them 

hip  and  thigh. 

I'd  follow  them  to  market,  and  I'd  follow  them  to 

mill, 
And  show  their  gross  perversities  of  thought  and 

deed  and  will ; 


14  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

And  then  I'd  seek  them  in  their  homes,  and  preach 

for  days  and  days, 
And  show  to  them  the  fearful  wrong  and  error  of 

their  ways. 

And  I  convicted  them  of  sin  ;  they  all  began  to  go  ; 
Yes,  they  all  trickled  out  of  town  in  one  continuous 

flow; 

And  my  own  wife  and  family  departed  with  the  rest, 
And  left  this  town  of  Shadigand  an  unpolluted  nest. 

And  so  my  prophecy  came  true  that  sin  would  dis 
appear  — 

There's  not  one  sinner  left  in  town  —  I'm  all  the 
soul  that's  here. 

But  you,  sir,  you're  a  sinful  man  —  foul  sin  your 
soul  has  hid  — 

What's  that  ?  You're  going  to  leave  the  town  ? 
Just  what  the  others  did. 


Our  Little  Back  Star  15 


OUR  LITTLE  BACK  STAR 


OH,  we  do  fairly  well  on  this  little  back  star, 

This  world  in  the  suburbs  of  space, 
Though  we're  out  here  alone,  and  we  hardly  know 
how 

To  get  our  belongings  in  place. 
We've  no  other  models  to  which  to  conform, 

We've  no  other  star  for  a  plan, 
And  we  think  for  a  young  and  a  little  back  star, 

We  have  done  nigh  as  well  as  we  can. 
And  so  we  abide  here  with  things  as  they  are 
In  our  cosmical  suburb,  our  little  back  star. 

'Tis  mostly  unfinished,  our  little  back  star, 

(Takes  time  for  a  world  to  get  made), 
And  the  building  of  worlds  is  involved  in  delay 

Not  known  to  the  carpenter's  trade. 
"  'Tis  not  the  best  possible  star  ? "     No,  not  yet ; 

Takes  time  to  build  worlds,  I  repeat. 
And  the  long,  long  design  of  its  architect's  plan 

Is  a  few  billion  years  from  complete. 
And  we  hardly  can  guess  what  the  finished  worlds  are 
In  the  unfinished  state  of  our  little  back  star. 


1 6  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

There  are  noisy  complaints  of  our  little  back  star, 

There  are  voices  upraised  that  are  loud  ; 
And  there's  much  that  is  said  that  is  nigh  to  the 
truth 

By  the  lips  of  the  querulous  crowd. 
There  is  much  that  is  lacking  in  justice  and  truth, 

There  is  more  that  is  lacking  in  grace ; 
So  our  little  back  star  with  its  querulous  freight 

Whirls  on  through  the  suburbs  of  space. 
And  the  great  frontward  stars  from   their  stations 

afar, 
In  silence  look  down  on  our  little  back  star. 

Oh,  the  great  frontward  stars  may  be  eons  ahead 

Of  our  little  back  star  in  the  race, 
But  the  simple,  sole  thing  for  a  star  and  a  man, 

Is  to  look  their  own  fate  in  the  face. 
There's  a  long  race  ahead  for  our  little  back  star, 

And  failures  and  flouts  not  a  few, 
But  perhaps  in  a  score  of  a  thousand  of  years 

We  may  grow  up  a  Shakespeare  or  two. 
We  are  bound  on  a  journey  that  stretches  afar, 
There's  a  long  course  ahead  for  our  little  back  star. 

Our  little  back  star  rolled  on  with  its  freight, 
In  the  crude  early  years  of  its  prime, 

With  wallowing  monsters  that  sprawled  in  the  sun, 
And  dragons  that  weltered  in  slime. 


Our  Little  Back  Star  17 

Let  the  voices  upraised  that  are  loud  in  complaint 

Still  swell  from  the  querulous  crew  ; 
But  our  little  back  star  travels  on  knowing  well 

What  a  few  million  ages  can  do. 
So  some  in  wise  silence  are  gazing  afar 
Down  the  long  distant  path  of  our  little  back  star. 


1 8  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


PIONEERING 


SONGS  for  the  tameless  tamers, 

The  tamers  of  the  seas ; 
Songs  for  the  stout  old  sailors 

Who  harnessed  every  breeze, 
Who  through  the  seas  of  darkness 

By  unknown  winds  were  whirled; 
Proud  Drake  and  stout  Magellan, 

The  girdlers  of  the  world. 

And  songs  for  Henry  Hudson, 

Wherever  he  may  be, 

Whose  bones  have  bleached  three  hundred 
years 

Beneath  his  northern  sea. 
Songs  for  the  grim  old  sailors, 

Men  of  heroic  pith, 
Yea,  songs  for  old  John  Cabot, 

And  songs  for  brave  John  Smith. 

Songs  for  La  Salle,  the  dauntless, 
And  songs  for  strong  Champlain ; 


Pioneering  19 

For  good  Marque tte  and  Joliet, 
For  Crockett,  Boone,  and  Kane. 

Songs  for  the  pioneer  vanguard, 
Who  ploughed  uncharted  floods, 

And  laid  the  sites  of  cities 
Within  the  roadless  woods. 


ii 

Songs  for  all  pioneering, 

And  all  are  pioneers: 
All  sailors  from  an  anchorage 

That  fronts  the  tide  of  years. 
And  each  man  sails  an  ocean 

No  other  sailed  before, 
And  each  man  findeth  for  himself 

An  undiscovered  shore. 

Sail  on  across  the  morning, 

Sail  forth  beyond  the  night, 
Sail  forth  and  trust  the  eternal  winds 

To  blow  your  bark  aright ; 
And  every  day  shall  greet  you, 

New  phase  of  wave  or  breeze, 
The  moonlight  on  new  headlands, 

The  sunlight  on  new  seas. 

Still  sail  the  tameless  tamers, 
The  tamers  of  the  seas ; 


20  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

Still  sail  the  stout  old  sailors 
Who  harness  every  breeze; 

Still  through  the  seas  of  darkness 
By  unknown  winds  are  whirled 

Proud  Drakes  and  stout  Magellans, 
The  girdlers  of  the  world. 


Swipesey,  the  Missionary  21 


SWIPESEY,    THE  MISSIONARY 


CHRIS'MUS  is  comin'!     Let  'er  come! 

I've  jined  the  Mission  Band 
What  sends  out  clo'es  an'  grub  an'  things 

To  ev'ry  heathen  land. 
I  loves  them  little  heathen  kids 

So  sunk  in  sin  an'  wrong, 
An'  I  have  jined  the  Mission  Band 

To  help  them  kids  along. 
Ya-as,  I  have  jined  the  Mission  Band, 

It's  jest  the  thing  for  me, — 
For  all  who  jine,  nex'  Chris'mus  time, 

Will  git  a  present.      See  ? 

Them  heathen  kids  is  low-down  mugs, 

They  lies  an'  swears  an'  fights, 
An'  crawls  into  a  hole,  like  bears, 

To  go  to  bed  at  nights. 
I  wants  to  help  them  kids  along, 

To  better  livin'  win  'em. 
An'  I'm  perpared  to  smash  the  bloke 

That  says  a  thing  ag'in  'em. 
I  love  them  heathen  kids,  I  does, 

I've  jined  the  Mission  Band, 


22 


Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

An' I  will  git  a  present.     Gee! 
Nex'  Chris'mus.     Understand? 

Them  heathen  kids  is  wickud  things, 

An'  growin'  wuss  an'  wuss. 
I  wants  to  make  'em  noble.     See? 

An'  sweet  an'  good,  like  us. 
I  wants  to  make  the  gang  bang-up, 

Jest  like  us  kids  is  here, 
An'  elervate  the  hull  blame  crowd 

'Way  up  to  our  idear; 
An'  so  I've  jined  the  Mission  Band, 

Me  an'  me  brudder  John, 
We'll  git  a  present  Chris'mus  time  — 

You  tumble?     Are  ye  on? 

I  loves  them  little  heathen  kids, 

An'  though  they're  mighty  tough, 
We're  goin'  to  elervate  the  scamps, 

An'  this  'ere  ain't  no  bluff. 
We  means  to  make  them  heathen  kids 

As  good  as  Buck  Magee, 
As  Swipesey  Dugan,  Slugger  Sam, 

Or  Guff  Malone  or  me. 
An'  so  we've  jined  the  Mission  Band, 

Me  an'  me  brudder  John, 
We'll  git  a  present,  Chris'mus  time  — 

You  tumble  ?     Are  ye  on  ? 


The  Coming  Captains  23 


777.5:   COMING   CAPTAINS 


THERE  are  many  children  dressed  in  bibs, 
There  are  many  sleeping  in  their  cribs, 
There  are  many  playing  with  their  toys, 
There  are  many  girls  and  many  boys : 
They're  coming  !     Though  the  world  is  wide, 
Make  room!     They're  coming!     Stand  aside! 

Is  there  a  wrong  that  needs  a  blow 

From  sturdy  arms  to  lay  it  low  ? 

Are  there,  albeit  the  world  is  old, 

Unconquered  evils  manifold? 

Has  wrong  some  fortress  wall  unsealed  ? 

Some  bastioned  tower  unassailed? 

Some  vaunting  champion  undefied? 

Stand  back!     They're  coming!     Stand  aside! 

And  are  there  dragons  still  unslain, 
The  wallowing  monsters  of  disdain, 
Who  mock  the  voices  of  our  time 
With  reptile  hisses  from  their  slime? 
And  do  the  hearts  of  strong  men  fail 
When  they  behold  their  serpent  trail  ? 


24  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

The  boys  and  girls  are  coming.     Stay! 
The  dragons  they  have  had  their  day. 

Are  there  old  phantoms  of  old  fears 
That  haunt  the  pathway  of  the  years? 
Old  doubts  that  make  the  sunshine  cold 
And  make  the  hearts  of  men  grow  old? 
Fall  back!  ye  spectres,  in  the  night, 
Our  face  is  forward  toward  the  light. 
The  boys  and  girls  are  coming!     Hide! 
Stand  back!     They're  coming!     Stand  aside! 

The  old  commanders  have  grown  gray, 
The  famous  Captains  pass  away, 
The  grim  old  Generals  are  slain  — 
Now  who  shall  plan  the  new  campaign? 
There  are  many  children  dressed  in  bibs, 
There  are  many  sleeping  in  their  cribs  — 
Come  forward !     Our  old  chiefs  are  gone  1 
Come  from  your  cradles  —  lead  us  on ! 

The  army  murmurs  at  delay; 
Come,  lead  us,  Captains.     We  obey. 
Hark,  hear  the  loud  foes'  battle-drum, 
Ye  captains  from  the  cradle,  come ! 
The  hosts  meet.     Let  the  war  begin  ! 
We  love  you  —  trust  you  —  you  will  win. 
Haul  down,  ye  foes,  your  flag  of  pride  ! 
Fall  back  1     They're  coming  !     Stand  aside ! 


The  Wide-Swung  Gates  25 


THE    WIDE-SWUNG   GATES 


THE  Genius  of  the  West 

Upon  her  high-seen  throne, 
Who  greets  the  incoming  guest 

And  loves  him  as  her  own  ; 
The  Genius  of  these  States 

She  hears  these  modern  pleas 
For  the  closing  of  the  gates 

Of  the  highways  of  her  seas. 
"  Fence  not  my  realm,"   she  says,  "  build  me  no 

continent  pen, 

Still  let  my  gates  swing  wide  for  all  the  sons  of 
men." 

The  Genius  of  these  States, 

She  of  the  open  hand, 
Stands  by  the  open  gates 

That  look  to  every  land : 
"  Come  hence  "  (she  hears  the  groans, 

The  distance-muffled  din 
Of  millions  crushed  by  thrones), 

"Come  hence  and  enter  in, 


26  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

Shut  not  my  gates,"  she  says,  "that  front  the  in 
flowing  tide, 

For  all  the  sons  of  men  still  let  my  gates  swing 
wide." 

"  What !  leave  thy  bolts  withdrawn  ?  " 

Cry  they  of  little  faith, 
"For  Europe's  voided  spawn, 

Spores  of  the  Old  World's  death  ? 
'These  monsters  wallowing  wide 

In  anarchy's  black  fen  ?  " 
"  Peace,  peace,  it  is  my  pride 

To  make  these  monsters  men  ; 
With  the  Great  Builder  work  that  knows  not  Greek 

or  Jew, 
And  from  an  old-world  stuff  fashion  a  world  anew. 

"  And  in  my  new-built  state 

The  tribes  of  men  shall  fuse, 
And  men  no  longer  prate 

Of  Gentiles  and  of  Jews  : 
Here  seek  no  racial  caste, 
No  social  cleavage  seek, 
Here  one,  while  time  shall  last, 

Barbarian  and  Greek: 
And  here  shall  spring  at  length,  in  narrowing  caste's 

despite, 
That  last  growth  of  the  world,  the  first  Cosmopolite. 


The  Wide -Swung  Gates  27 

"A  man  not  made  of  mud 

My  coming  man  shall  be, 
But  of  the  mingled  blood 

Of  every  tribe  is  he. 
The  vigor  of  the  Dane, 

The  deftness  of  the  Celt, 
The  Latin  suppleness  of  brain 
In  him  shall  fuse  and  melt ; 

The  muscularity  of  soul  of  the  strong  West  be  blent 
With   the  wise  dreaminess  that  broods  above  the 
Orient. 

"  Here  clashing  creeds  upraise 

Their  warring  standards  long, 
Till  the  ferment  of  our  days 

Shall  make  our  new  wine  strong. 
Let  thought  meet  thought  in  fight, 
Let  systems  clash  and  clinch,  — 
The  false  must  sink  in  night, 

The  truth  yields  not  an  inch. 
No  thought  left  loose,  ungyved,  can  long  a  menace 

be 
Within  a  tolerant  land  where  every  thought  is  free." 

The  Genius  of  the  West 

Upon  her  high-seen  throne 
Thus  greets  the  incoming  guest 

And  clasps  him  as  her  own. 


28  Songs  of  Wai  and  Peace 

The  Genius  of  these  States 

Puts  by  these  modern  pleas 
For  the  closing  of  the  gates 

Of  the  highways  of  her  seas. 
"  Fence  not  my  realm,"   she  says,   "  build   me  no 

continent  pen, 

Still  let  my  gates  swing  wide  for  all  the  sons  of 
men." 


29 


THE  SONG   OF  THE  CANNON 


WHEN  the  diplomats  cease  from  their  capers, 

Their  red-tape  requests  and  replies, 
Their  shuttlecock  battle  of  papers, 

Their  saccharine  parley  of  lies ; 
When  the  plenipotentiary  wrangle 

Is  tied  in  a  chaos  of  knots, 
And  becomes  an  unwindable  tangle 

Of  verbals  unmarried  to  thoughts  ; 
When  they've  anguished  and  argued  profoundly} 

Asserted,  assumed,  and  averred, 
Then  I  end  up  the  dialogue  roundly 

With  my  monosyllabical  word. 

Not  mine  is  a  speech  academic, 

No  lexicon  lingo  is  mine, 
And  in  politic  parley,  polemic, 

I  was  never  created  to  shine. 
But  I  speak  with  some  show  of  decision, 

And  I  never  attempt  to  be  bland, 
I  hurl  my  one  word  with  precision, 

My  hearers  —  they  all  understand. 


3°  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

It  requires  no  labored  translation, 
Its  pith  and  its  import  to  glean  ; 

They  gather  its  signification, 

They  know  at  the  first  what  I  mean. 

The  codes  of  the  learned  legations, 

Of  form  and  of  rule  and  decree, 
The  etiquette  books  of  the  nations  — 

They  were  never  intended  for  me. 
When  your  case  is  talked  into  confusion, 

Then  hush  you,  my  diplomat  friend, 
Give  me  just  a  word  in  conclusion, 

I'll  bring  the  dispute  to  an  end. 
Ye  diplomats,  cease  to  aspire 

A  case  that's  appealed  to  debate, 
It  has  gone  to  a  court  that  is  higher, 

And  I'm  the  Attorney  for  Fate. 


A  Recipe  for  Success  31 


A   RECIPE  FOR  SUCCESS 


How  is  it  I  have  prospered  so?     How  is  it  I  have 

struck 
Throughout  the  hull  of  my  ka-reer  jest  one  long 

streak  of  luck? 
Intellijunce,  young  man;  that's  all.     I  reason  an' 

reflec' — 
'Tis  jest  intellijunce  an'  brains  an'  straightout  in- 

tellec'. 

Wen  I  git  up  I'm  allus  sure  to  dress  me  right  foot 
first, 

Or  put  my  drawers  on  wrong  side  out,  or  hev  my 
vest  reversed, 

For  them  are  signs  you'll  hev  good  luck ;  an  eddi- 
cated  man 

Knows  all  them  signs,  an'  shapes  his  life  on  a  con 
sistent  plan. 

I've  strewed  ol'  hoss-shoes  down  the  road  for  some- 
thin'  like  a  mile, 
An'  I  go  out  an'  hunt  'em  up  a-every  little  while; 


32  Songs  of  War  and  A 

For  if  you  fin'  a  hoss-shoe,  w'y,  you're  sure  to  pros 
per  then; 
A  fac'  that  is  familyer  to  all  eddicated  men. 

A  cat's  tail  p'intin'  to'rds  the  fire,  it  is  an  awful 

sign; 

But  I  hev  counteracted  it  with  every  cat  of  mine; 
If  my  cat's  tail  should  p'int  that  way  it  wouldn'  give 

me  scares; 
I'd  go  in  my  back  entry  then  an'  simply  fall  up-stairs. 

It's  a  good  sign  to  fall  up-stairs  an'  counteracts  the 

cat; 
An'  that's  the  way  I  shape  my  life,  I  balance  this 

with  that. 
I  see  four  crows — bad  sign  I  know  —  might  scare 

a  man  that's  bolder; 
But  I  jest  wait  an'  see  the  moon  rise  over  my  right 

shoulder. 

The  moon  it  counteracts  the  crows ;  one  balances 

the  other, 
For  one  is  jest  wiped  out,  you  see,  an'  cancelled  off 

by  t'other. 
I  hear  a  dog  howl  in  the  night;  it  don't  give  me  no 

dread, 
I  balance  it  by  gittin'  out  the  right  han'  side  the 

bed. 


A  Recipe  for  Success  33 

An'  so  I've  prospered  all  my  life  by  jest  a  little 

pains. 
Intellijunce,  young  man,  that's  all,  an'  intellec'  an' 

brains. 
'Tis  ignorunce  that  makes  men  fail.    An'  wisdom  — 

nothin'  less  — 
Inlightenmunt  an'  knowledge,  sir,  can  bring  a  man 

success. 


34  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


THE  SONG   OF  A  RIVER 


Hear  my  song  of  a  river, 

Its  calm  and  its  strife  ; 
'7?s  the  song  of  a  river, 

The  song  of  a  life. 

AFAR  amid  benignant  hills  in  caverns  of  deep  shade, 

'Neath  rippling  arches  of  cool  leaves,  within  a  for 
est  glade, 

The  mountain  rivulet  leaps  down  in  silvery  cascade. 

Child  of  the  hills,  it  sings  its  song  and  spills  its 
wayward  glee 

In  tangled  music  through  the  rocks  and  dreams  not 
of  the  sea, 

It  spills  ambrosial  morning  joy  and  dreams  not  of 
the  sea. 

And  there  are  many-colored  birds  that  join  their 

mingled  strain, 
And   many  zephyr-tumbled    leaves  that  swell  the 

strong  refrain, 
And  the  voice  of  the  sombre  pine  alone  is  the  only 

voice  of  pain. 


The  Song  of  a  River  35 

'Tis  the  only  voice  that   tells   of   the   sea   that's 

under  sun  or  star, 
And  a  foolish,  phantom  voice  to  the  stream  that 

dreams  the  sea  is  far, 
That  dreams  that  the  world  is  a  mighty  world  and 

the  sea  is  very  far. 

But  birds  from  the  south  fly  into  the  hills  and  sing 

of  a  world  unknown, 
And  there  are  winds  that  float  from  the  west  from 

odorous  valleys  blown, 
And  the  winds  that  tell  of  a  meadowy  land  with 

deep  grass  overgrown  ; 
And  a  land  beyond  the  meadowy  land  at  the  end  of 

a  winding  glen, 
A  steaming  land  and  a  strenuous  land,  the  Land  of 

the  Roar  of  Men  — 
And  the  river  is  fain  for  the  meadowy  land  and  the 

Land  of  the  Roar  of  Men. 

ii 

Hear  my  song  of  a  river, 

Its  calm  and  its  strife  ; 
'Tis  the  song  of  a  river, 

The  song  of  a  life. 

And  the  river  leaps  to  the  meadowy  land  and  is 
strong  in  the  stress  of  its  flow, 


36  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

It  is  hurled  by  the  weight  of  its  floods  above  and  is 

mad  for  the  deep  below, 
For  it  hastens  on  to  the  falls  ahead  where  the  mead- 

owless  cities  grow. 
And  it  leaps  the  falls  and  joins  in  the  noise  of  the 

Land  of  the  Roar  of  Men, 
Till  it  yearns  for  the  peace  of  the  sleeping  hills 

and  the  deeps  of  the  woodland  glen  — 
By   the   giant  wheels  of   the  thunderous  mills  it 

yearns  for  the  woodland  glen. 

And  the  spindles  clash  in  the  thunderous  mills  and 

the  work  of  the  world  is  done, 
And  men  are  hived  from  the  breath  of  the  hills  and 

the  glory  of  the  sun, 
And  the  lives  of  men  are  ravelled  out,  but  webs  of 

cloth  are  spun. 
Through   its  darkened  sluice  of  builded  stone  its 

writhing  waters  flee, 
Till  it  yearns  for  the  meads  of  the  salted  tide  and 

the  voice  of  the  calling  sea, 
For  the  tolerant  plains  of  the  tided  meads  and  the 

voice  of  the  friendly  sea. 

And  it  flows  to  the  meads  of  the  salted  tide  and  is 

cheered  by  the  ocean's  roar, 
For  in  the  roar  is  a  mystic  Voice  that  speaks  for- 

evermore, 


The  Song  of  a  River  37 

A  mystic  Voice  in  a  mystic  song  that  sings  of  a 

thitherward  shore. 
And  the  river  is  calm  with  the  calm  of  the  Voice 

and  through  the  salted  lea, 
In  the  silent  trance  of  a  pleasant  sleep  it  falls  in 

the  waiting  sea  — 
Falls  lulled  by  the  croon  of  the  mystic  song  in  the 

mother  arms  of  the  sea. 

My  song  of  a  river, 

Its  calm  and  its  strife  ; 
My  song  of  a  river, 

The  river  of  life. 


38  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


A  BROOK  AND  A   LIFE 

i 


I 

I  KNOW  a  brook  that  flits  and  flows 

Where  many  a  water-lily  grows; 
That  leaps  with  singing  down  the  hills, 

Then  sleeps  in  meadows  of  repose. 
I  know  a  brook  whose  silvery  sheen 
Gleams  through  its  arbored  banks  of  green, 
Then  dashes  down  a  mad  ravine, — 
I  know  a  brook: 

But  till  its  latest  mile  is  gone 

A  brook  must  ever  travel  on. 

This  brook  I  know  is  fed  by  rills 

That  tumble  from  the  singing  hills, 
This  brook  leaps  down  its  bowldered  banks 

And  far  its  liquid  music  spills. 
Then  flows  where  deep-toned  pines  complain, 
And  whippoorwills  pour  their  song  of  pain 
To  the  unpitying  night  in  vain  — 
This  brook  I  know: 

For  till  its  latest  mile  is  gone 

A  brook  must  ever  travel  on. 


A  Brook  and  a  Life  39 

And  then  it  sweeps  from  out  the  gloom 

To  turn  the  mill  and  whirl  the  loom, 
And  draws  a  nurture  from  the  night 

That  makes  its  water-lilies  bloom. 
It  has  its  days  of  gloom  and  glee, 
Its  dark  pine  woods  and  lighted  lea,  — 
And  then  'tis  lost  within  the  sea, 
This  brook  of  mine: 

For  till  its  latest  mile  is  gone 

A  brook  must  ever  travel  on. 


ii 

I  know  a  life  that  flits  and  flows 

Where  many  a  water-lily  grows, 
That  dances  down  the  singing  hills, 

And  sleeps  in  meadows  of  repose. 
I  know  a  life,  that,  like  a  stream, 
Has  caught  the  glory  and  the  gleam 
Of  many  a  white  cloud's  floating  dream. 
I  know  a  life: 

And  till  its  latest  hour  is  gone 

A  life  must  ever  travel  on. 

I  know  a  life  whose  winding  ways 
Have  flowed  through  leagues  of  sunny  days, 
And  gathered  music  for  its  song 

From  meadow  larks  and  woodland  lays. 


4°  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

This  life  I  know  has  flowed  alone 
Where  groves  of  pine  make  solemn  moan, 
Has  flowed  by  night  when  no  star  shone  — 
This  life  I  know: 

For  till  its  latest  hour  is  gone 

A  life  must  ever  travel  on. 

And  then  it  leaped  from  out  the  gloom 
To  turn  the  mill  and  whirl  the  loom, 
And  drew  a  nurture  from  the  night 

That  made  its  water-lilies  bloom  ; 
Though  swollen  by  the  rain  of  tears, 
Or  smiled  on  by  the  sunny  years, 
The  sea's  far  voice  is  in  thine  ears, 

O  life  I  know ! 

And  till  thy  latest  hour  is  gone 
Toward  that  dim  sea  flow  bravely  on. 


The  Brook  and  the  Boy  41 


THE  BROOK  AND    THE  BOY 


"  OH,  the  hills  are  fair  where  I  shall  flow," 
Said  the  song  of  the  brook  to  the  boy; 
"And  the  meadows  are  sweet  to  which  I  go," 

Said  the  song  of  the  brook  to  the  boy; 
"  For  I  flow  on  to  a  broader  land, 
To  scenes  where  wider  vales  expand, 
To  a  land  where  lordlier  mountains  stand," 
Said  the  song  of  the  brook  to  the  boy." 

"  And  I  go  into  a  broader  land," 

Said  the  heart  of  the  boy  to  the  brook ; 
"To  the  towered  towns  and  the  cities  grand," 

Said  the  heart  of  the  boy  to  the  brook. 

"  Oh,  the  coming  day  draws  near,  and  then 

I  will  leave  this  dreary  woodland  glen  — 

A  leader  of  men  in  a  world  of  men," 

Said  the  heart  of  the  boy  to  the  brook. 


"Ah,  me,  for  the  peace  of  the  hills  again," 
Said  the  song  of  the  stream  to  the  man,  — 


42  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

"The  brooding  peace  of  the  woodland  glen," 

Said  the  song  of  the  stream  to  the  man. 
"And,  oh,  for  the  rest  of  the  quiet  glade, 
And  the  dreaming  peace  of  the  alder  shade, 
And  the  vales  where  the  smiles  of  the  morning 

played," 
Said  the  song  of  the  stream  to  the  man. 

"  And,  oh,  for  the  meadows  of  youth  once  more ! " 

Said  the  heart  of  the  man  to  the  stream ; 
"  And  the  dewy  hope  of  the  days  of  yore !  " 
Said  the  heart  of  the  man  to  the  stream. 
"  And,  oh,  for  the  strength  of  its  sunrise  joy, 
When  living  was  play  and  the  world  was  a  toy; 
And,  oh,  for  the  hope  of  the  heart  of  a  boy !  " 
Said  the  heart  of  the  man  to  the  stream. 


Farragttt  to  Dewey  43 

V 


FARRAGUT  TO  DEWEY 


SAID  the  Goddess  of   Fame  to  the  pedestalled 
shade 

Of  Farragut  looming  on  high : 
"  Move  over  a  bit  on  your  pedestal,  man, 

For  a  twin-born  of  Fame  draweth  nigh; 
Move  over  a  bit,  give  him  room  at  your  side, 

A  trifle  of  space  you  must  spare 
For  the  first  of  the  sons  of  the  sea  of  our  day, 

So  make  room  for  Dewey  up  there." 

"  And  who  is  this  Dewey  ? "  the  gray  shade  replies. 

"He  is  one  of  your  sailors,"  said  Fame; 
"And  the  sea-winds  that  blow  on  both  sides  of 
the  world 

Are  loud  with  the  sound  of  his  name. 
Without  losing  a  ship,  or  a  gun,  or  a  man, 

Spain's  navy  he  sunk  in  the  sea." 
Said  Farragut  then  to  the  new  son  of  Fame : 

"  Approach,  and  come  up  here  with  me ! " 


44  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


TWO  BRIDES 


I 

THE  Man  who  Loved  the  Names  of  Things 

Went  forth  beneath  the  skies, 
And  named  all  things  that  he  beheld, 

And  people  called  him  wise. 
An  unseen  presence  walked  with  him 

Forever  by  his  side, 
The  wedded  mistress  of  his  soul, — 

For  Knowledge  was  his  bride  ; 
She  named  the  flowers,  the  weeds,  the  trees, 
And  all  the  growths  of  all  the  seas. 

She  told  him  all  the  rocks  by  name, 

The  winds  and  whence  they  blew; 
She  told  him  how  the  seas  were  formed, 

And  how  the  mountains  grew; 
She  numbered  all  the  stars  for  him 

And  all  the  rounded  skies 
Were  mapped  and  charted  for  the  gaze 

Of  his  devouring  eyes. 
Thus,  taught  by  her,  he  taught  the  crowd  ; 
They  praised  —  and  he  was  very  proud. 


Two  Brides  45 

ii 

The  Man  who  Loved  the  Soul  of  Things 

Went  forth  serene  and  glad, 
And  mused  upon  the  mighty  world, 

And  people  called  him  mad. 
An  unseen  presence  walked  with  him 

Forever  by  his  side, 
The  wedded  mistress  of  his  soul,  — 

For  Wisdom  was  his  bride. 
She  showed  him  all  this  mighty  frame, 
And  bade  him  feel  —  but  named  no  name. 

She  stood  with  him  upon  the  hills 

Ringed  by  the  azure  sky, 
And  shamed  his  lowly  thought  with  stars, 

And  bade  it  climb  as  high. 
And  all  the  birds  he  could  not  name, 

The  nameless  stars  that  roll, 
The  unnamed  blossoms  at  his  feet, 

Talked  with  him  soul  to  soul ; 
He  heard  the  Nameless  Glory  speak 
In  silence  —  and  was  very  meek. 


46  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


SURVIVALS 


A  THOUSAND  acorns  through  the  mould, 
One  summer  in  the  days  of  old, 

Burst  forth  into  the  sun  and  breeze 
To  grow  into  a  thousand  trees, 
To  fight  the  storm  and  brave  the  cold, 
And  live  through  many  centuries. 

There  came  a  keen,  untimely  frost ; 
Five  hundred  infant  oaks  were  lost. 

And  then  the  herds  that  chanced  that 
way, 

The  browsing  kine  and  lambs  at  play 
Among  the  hillocks  greenly  mossed, 

Cropped  down  four  hundred  in  a  day. 

A  hundred  oaks  were  left  to  grow, 
But  fourscore  perished  in  the  snow  ; 
And  of  the  score  that  still  remain 

Ten  fall  before  the  hurricane, 
Ten  challenge  all  the  winds  that  blow 

And  cast  their  shade  o'er  all  the  plain. 


Survivals  47 

But,  as  the  years  pass  on,  one  oak 
Lies  shattered  by  the  thunder-stroke, 

And  one  is  felled,  the  woodman's  prey  ; 

One  falls  through  it's  own  heart's  decay  ; 
One  in  the  whirlwind's  fury  broke, 

And  two  the  torrents  swept  away. 

Four  oaks  now  toward  the  sun  aspire ; 

One  falls  before  an  earthquake  dire, 
And  one  is  dragged  away  in  chains 
A  keel  to  plough  the  ocean  plains  ; 

One  withers  in  a  forest  fire, 

And  one  —  one  only  oak  —  remains. 

And  there  it  stands,  the  centuries'  pride, 

The  monarch  of  the  mountain  side, 

Blessed  by  five  hundred  summers  bland, 
By  breaths  of  ferny  fragrance  fanned ; 

But  no  one  notes  the  oaks  that  died  — 
They  are  forgotten  in  the  land. 

ii 

Each  summer  'mid  the  waste  and  weeds 
Doth  Nature  sow  immortal  seeds, 
And  scatter  over  field  and  fen, 
Through  tumbled  gorge  and  babbling 

glen, 

The  seeds  of  men  of  mighty  deeds, 
Seeds  of  a  thousand  deathless  men. 


48  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

A  thousand  men  of  loftier  strain, 
Of  ampler  soul  and  subtler  brain, 
By  Nature's  unexhausted  hand 
Are  sown  each  year  in  every  land  — 
Strong  men,  and  dowered  to  attain 

The  heights  where  the  immortals  stand. 

But  many  in  a  sordid  age 

Yield  up  their  birthright  heritage, 

And,  scorched  by  traffic's  poison  breath, 
Their  germ  of  grandeur  withereth  ; 
For  tinsel,  tags,  and  equipage 

They  give  their  better  parts  to  death. 

And  some  forget  their  mighty  trust 
Through  weakness  mixed  with  human  dust ; 
They  burn  with  phosphorescent  fire 
Engendered  in  the  slime  and  mire ; 
Are  torn  by  tigers  of  their  lust, 
And  slain  by  dragons  of  desire. 

And  some  from  their  high  path  depart 
Through  inborn  cowardice  of  heart ; 
Some  fall  unnoted  in  the  stress 
Of  their  unneighbored  loneliness ; 
Some  freely  choose  the  baser  part, 
And  greatness  yields  to  littleness. 

And  some  whose  tainted  blood  is  rife 
With  poison  at  the  core  of  life, 


Survivals  49 

Who  cry,  "  The  fault  is  not  in  us  ! " 
But  Fate  will  pause  not  to  discuss  — 
They  perish  in  the  unequal  strife 
Who  fight  with  beasts  at  Ephesus. 

And  some  send  out  their  branching  shoots, 
But  perish  from  unwatered  roots  ; 

Some,  smit  by  sorrow's  thunder-stone, 

Go  down  at  midnight  and  alone  ; 
Some,  charmed  by  pleasure's  shawms  and 
flutes, 

Play  no  high  music  of  their  own. 

in 

A  thousand  men  were  sown  broadcast  — 
Mayhap  but  one  survives  at  last. 

He  shapes  our  thoughts  and  rules  our 
ways, 

And  lives  an  endless  length  of  days, 
And  mates  the  mighty  of  the  past, 

Enshrined  in  Pantheon  pomp  of  praise. 

Immortal  are  the  songs  he  sings, 
And  deathless  is  the  word  he  brings ; 
Aye,  deathless  is  his  very  breath, 
Far,  far  his  long  thought  journeyeth ; 
But,  ah  !  his  termless  life  —  it  springs 
From  the  dark  soil  of  many  deaths. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  UNCLE  SAM 


"On,  Uncle  Sam,"  they  said,  "has  grown  fat  and 
loves  his  ease, 

And  he  lingers  long  at  table  and  distends  his  grow 
ing  girth; 

The  strong  arm  we  used  to  know  has  grown  slug 
gard-like  and  slow, 

And  they  mock  his  smug  indifference  to  the  ends 
of  all  the  earth. 

"  As  his  money  bags  grow  heavy  does  his  love  of 
man  grow  small, 

As  his  cushioned  chair  grows  softer  does  his  cal 
loused  heart  grow  hard ; 

He  is  careless  of  his  fame  and  the  glory  of  his 
name, 

And  the  vision  of  the  prophet  and  the  rapture  of 
the  bard. 

"And  the  tyrants  in  their  anger  lash  their  slaves 

before  his  eyes, 
And  he  turns  his  sleepy  features  tow'rd  their  faces 

hot  with  tears, 


The  Awakening  of  Uncle  Sam  51 

And  he  sits  between  his  seas  in  his  soft,  voluptuous 

ease, 
And  the  voices  of  their  torment  smite  his  undis- 

cerning  ears." 

Ah,  the  slander  of  the  tongues  that  proclaimed  his 

heart  was  cold  ! 
Ah,  the  error  of  the  dotage  that  believed  his  arm 

was  weak ! 
Ah,  the  folly,  mad  and  dire,  that  provoked  the  slow 

to  ire, 
And  the  pride  that's  in  the  careless,  and  the  might 

that's  in  the  meek  ! 

He  has  risen  from  his  feasting,  the  old  look  is  on 

his  face, 
For  the  voices  of  the  helpless  arid  the  dying  throng 

his  path, 
For  he  sees  at  last  their  tears,  and  their  groans  are 

in  his  ears, 
And  his  arm  is  clothed  with  thunder,  and  his  heart 

is  nerved  with  wrath  ! 

We  have  wronged   him,  the   forbearing,   him    the 

patient,   slow  to  smite, 
And  we  love  him  more  than  ever  and  are  prouder 

of  his  fame; 


52  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

And  we  weep  the  taunts  we  uttered  and  the  whis 
pered  sneers  we  muttered  — 

For  his  guns  before  Manila  silenced  all  the  tongues 
of  blame. 


Peter,  the  Orthodox  53 


PETER,    THE   ORTHODOX 


"  PETE,  you're  a  common  laughing-stock, 

You  are  the  village  butt, 
Your  hair  is  so  outrageous  long  — 

Why  don't  you  get  it  cut  ?  " 
"Bekase  dere  ain't  no  barber,  sah, 

Dat's  good  ernuff  foh  me ; 
Dere  ain't  no  barber  in  dis  town 
Dat's  up  to  my  idee." 

"Why,  there  is  'Rastus  Graham,  Pete, 

A  barber  up  to  par. " 
"La!  yes;  but  den  I  kain't  hev  him, 

Foh  he's  a  Baptis',  sah. 
No  low-down  Baptis'  herertic 

So  bigotty  ez  he 
Shall  never  cut  de  ha'r  upon 
A  Meferdis  like  me." 

"  But  Pratt's  a  barber  just  as  good 

As  any  on  the  list; 
A  splendid  barber,  and  besides 
An  earnest  Methodist." 


54  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

"  He  am  a  Meferdis,  I  know, 

But  I  kain't  train  wiv  Pratt 
Bekase  I  am  a  'Publican 
An'  he's  a  Dimmerkrat." 

"But  there  is  Bangs,  a  Methodist, 

A  very  righteous  man, 
A  Methodist  in  high  repute, 

A  good  Republican." 
"  But  he's  a  homerpaff,  the  wretch, 

Ez  bad  ez  he  can  be, 
An'  he  kain't  cut  de  wool  on  sich 
An  allopaff  ez  me. 

I  Stan's  foh  righteousness,  I  does, 

Foh  troof  an'  nuffin'  less; 
No  Baptis'  trash  an'  homerpaffs 

Can  suit  my  piousness. 
Wen  some  good  barber  comes  to  town, 

A  Meferdis  fair  an'  squar', 
An  allopaff  an'  'Publican, 

W'y,  he  can  cut  my  ha'r." 


The  Wordless  Voke  55 


THE    WORDLESS   VOICE 


A  DWELLER  in  a  hut  alone,  fed  from  a  dish  of  wood, 
A  drinker  of  the  flowing  brook,  a  child  of  solitude, 
A  sleeper  on  a  bed  of  leaves,  may  find  that  life  is 

good, 
And  hear  high  music  on  his  way  that  bids  his  soul 

rejoice, 
If  his  wise  ear  has  learned  to  hear  —  to  hear  the 

Wordless  Voice. 

The  Wordless  Voice  it  speaks  not  in  the  syllables 
of  men ; 

'Tis  borne  along  the  night  wind  down  the  glimmer 
ing  of  the  glen ; 

It  talks  among  the  rushes  in  the  fluttering  of  the  fen ; 

It  flows  along  all  valleys  where  any  brook  can  flow, 

Where  any  stream  can  catch  the  gleam  of  sunlight 
or  of  snow. 

It  speaks  beside  all  pathways  that  wind  beneath  all 

trees, 
And  speaks  from  all  the  chanting  shores  that  circle 

all  the  seas, 


56  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

And  from  the  hills  that  know  no  plough,  and  from 
the  spadeless  leas, 

It  speaks  a  language,  not  of  men,  but  plainly  un 
derstood, 

By  men  who  love,  below,  above,  all  things  and 
deem  them  good. 

The  noises  blown  about  the  world  beneath  the  scorn 
ful  stars, 

The  cannons  of  the  Captains  and  the  thunder  of  the 
wars; 

The  sound  that  tears  the  jangled  years  and  all  their 
music  mars, 

Cannot  drown  down  the  Wordless  Voice  that  from 
the  silence  speaks; 

'Tis  blown  to  men  from  every  glen  and  floats  from 
all  the  peaks. 

Dark  for  the  world  would  be  the  day  that  saw  that 

Voice  withdrawn ; 
Then  would  the  day  be  emptiness,  the  race  of  men 

but  spawn; 
No  twilight  peace  would  fall  at  night,  no  hope  would 

come  with  dawn  ; 
No  dreams  would  haunt  the  sky  line,  no  fancies 

throng  the  glen ; 
The  wretched  weight  of  iron  fate  would  crush  the 

hearts  of  men. 


The  Wordless  f^oice  57 

Up  from  the  deeps  of  silence  the  awful  mountains 

rise, 
And  in  the  deeps  of  silence  are  arched  the  sacred 

skies, 

And  in  the  peace  of  silence  sleep  the  eternities; 
And  from  the  soul  of  silence  that  was   ere   time 

began 
Comes  forth  the  Voice  that  bids  rejoice  and  speaks 

its  word  to  man. 


58  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


THE   YEAST  OF  EVOLUTION 


THE  yeast  of  evolution  was  dropped  into  the  welter 

Of  the  drifting  sea  of  chaos  long  ago ; 
And  then  the  cloud-shapes  gathered  and  the  world- 
stuff  floated  mistlike, 

Till  the  pulp  of  stars  was  hardened  and  the  worlds 
began  to  grow. 

And  the  yeast  of  evolution  worked  upon  the  plastic 

planets, 

And  our  fire-world  bubbled  mountains  to  the  sky ; 
And  our  continents  emerging  shook  the  sea  from  off 

their  highlands, 

And  the  red-jawed  dragons  wallowed  where  all  life 
but  theirs  would  die. 

And  the  yeast  of  evolution  worked  into  the  blood  of 

dragons, 

And  they  perished  and  their  bellowing  died  away; 
And  the  slowly  mellowing  cycles  rolled  their  slow- 
paced  revolutions, 

And  the  primal  Man  came  forward   and   stood 
naked  to  the  day. 


The  Yeast  of  Evolution  59 

And  the  yeast  of  evolution  grew  within  his  aimless 

purpose, 

And  the  hairy  savage  battled,  clan  with  clan, 
Till  the   strong-armed  brute  grew  conscious   of  a 

deeper  life  within  him, 

And  the  soul  of  man  grew  conscious  and  revealed 
itself  to  man. 

Then  the  yeast  of  evolution  works  its  great  amelio 
ration, 
And  the  World  Tree  sheds  its  blossoms  through 

the  gloom, 
Till   it  flowers   into  Moses,  Homer,  Plato,  Dante, 

Shakespeare,  — 

Flowers  prophecies   of   flowers   that    are  yet   to 
burst  in  bloom. 

For  the  yeast  of  evolution  works,  as  hitherto,  for 
ever  ; 

We  are  in  the  morning  hours  of  our  day ; 
Down  the  ever-widening  vista  whose  long  stretches 

end  in  twilight 

We   shall    come   on  new  perfections,  meet   new 
music  on  the  way. 

Yea,  the  yeast  of  evolution  works,  as  hitherto,  for 
ever  ; 
Far  are  now  the  wallowing  dragons  in  their  slime ; 


60  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

Ah,  but  farther,  farther,  farther,  is  the  long,  long  way 

before  us, 

We  shall  meet  a  loftier  music  down  the  thorough 
fare  of  time. 


The  Pulling -Through  of  ToMum          61 


THE  PULLfNG-THROUGH  OF  TODLUM 


THE  Grossest  man  in  Glosterkonk, 
Without  no  doubt,  is  Dr.  Bronk. 
Ol'  Dr.  Bronk  hez  got  a  jaw 
That's  firmer  than  the  morril  law, 
An'  Dr.  Bronk  hez  got  a  frown 
That  purty  nearly  knocks  ye  down. 
Gee !  he  is  sot  an'  stiff  an'  tough, 
An'  made  of  linkum  vity  stuff. 
Wen  he  comes  in  a  sick  room  he 
Kicks  up  etarnal  bobbery ; 
He  jaws  because  the  air's  too  het, 
An'  'cause  he  finds  the  winders  shet , 
He's  jest  ez  like  to  scold  ez  not 
'Cause  the  cold  water  is  too  hot ; 
An'  then,  nex'  minute,  he  will  scold 
'Cause  the  hot  water  is  too  cold. 
He  scares  the  women  from  their  wits, 
An'  gives  the  nurse  conniption  fits; 
An'  w'en  he's  there  they  want  to  die, 
An'  w'en  he's  gone  they  set  an'  cry. 
But  we  love  Dr.  Bronk,  we  do; 
For  Dr.  Bronk  pulled  Todlum  through. 


62  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

But  there  are  few  in  Glosterkonk 

Who  waste  much  love  on  Dr.  Bronk, 

For  even  gentle  Elder  Priest 

Says  he  is  savage  as  a  beast ; 

An'  Abram  Murch  an'  Hiram  Howe 

Say  they  wouldn'  hev  him  to  a  cow ; 

An'  that  good  soul,  A'nt  Hester  Pratt, 

Sez  she  wouldn'  hev  him  to  a  cat, 

Wouldn'  hev  the  pesky  critter  nigh 

Onless  she  wished  the  cat  to  die. 

"  Ol'  vinegar  is  honeycomb 

Compared  to  him,"  said  Deacon  Home. 

"A  bear's  a  gentleman,"  said  Jim, 

"  A  gentleman  compared  to  him." 

Wall,  maybe  all  these  things  are  true, 

But  Bronk,  he  pulled  our  Todlum  through. 

Young  Todlum  he  was  very  sick, 

An'  we  got  smilin'  Dr.  Dick  ; 

He  tol'  us  'twas  no  use  to  try ; 

A  hopeless  case  ;  the  child  mus'  die. 

"Git  Dr.  Brown  !  "  my  wife  she  cried. 

He  came ;  the  child  had  almost  died. 

"  No  use,"  said  Dr.  Brown.     "  Too  late ! 

No  use,  good  friends,  to  fight  with  fate." 

An'  then  my  wife  she  turned  to  me, 

"  Run  quick  an'  git  ol'  Bronk ! "  said  she. 

An'  ol'  Bronk  came.     How  he  did  swear 


The  Pulling -Through  of  Todlum         63 

About  the  closeness  of  the  air ; 

Threw  off  three  quilts  upon  the  floor, 

An'  bellered  out,  "  Don't  shet  that  door  !  " 

He  sent  us  flyin'  here  an'  there, 

An'  everything  we  did  he'd  swear. 

He  kept  us  in  a  tremblin'  plight, 

For  everything  we  did  warn't  right. 

But  we  held  in  —  didn'  make  a  sound  — 

An'  let  the  ol'  bear  thunder  'round. 

He  kept  us  jumpin'  all  night  long, 

An'  everything  we  did  was  wrong. 

At  daylight  Todlum  gave  a  groan, 

A  still,  faint,  awful  kind  o'  moan ! 

"  He's  going  !  He's  going  !  "  my  wife  she  cried, 

An'  fell  down  sobbin'  at  his  side. 

"  Don't  bawl  so,  woman  ;  can't  yer  see 

Yer  cub  is  goin'  to  live,"  sez  he. 

Todlum  looked  up,  the  blessed  child  ! 

Into  his  mother's  face  an'  smiled. 

"  Don't  make  sich  thunderin'  hullabaloo," 

Said  Bronk,  "I've  pulled  the  rascal  through." 

"  Don't  make  such  thunderin'  hullabaloo ; 
Get  up  I     I've  pulled  yer  rascal  through." 
The  sweetest  words  that  ever  rung 
From  any  seraph  angel's  tongue 
Were  not  so  sweet  as  these  he  said 


64  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

While  we  were  standin'  roun'  that  bed. 
My  wife  she  threw  her  arms  around 
That  ol'  bear's  neck  with  one  glad  bound  ; 
Her  face  was  in  his  whiskers  hid, 
She  hugged  an'  kissed  him  —  yes,  she  did  ! 
The  sweetest  words  we  ever  heard, 
Although,  I  guess  it  soun's  absurd, 
Were  just  them  words  that  ol'  Bronk  said 
While  we  were  standin'  roun'  that  bed : 
"  Don't  make  sich  thunderin'  hullabaloo, 
Get  up  1  I've  pulled  yer  rascal  through." 


The  Dome  of  Pictures  65 


THE  DOME  OF  PICTURES 


In  a  little  house  keep  I  pictures  suspended ;  it  is  not  a  fixed  house, 
It  is  round,  it  is  only  a  few  inches  from  one  side  to  the  other  ; 
Yet  behold,  it  has  room  for  all  the  shows  of  the  world,  all  memories ! 
Here  the  tableaux  of  life  and  here  the  groupings  of  death. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

AH,  each  man  bears  his  Dome  of  Dreams  — 

A  picture  dome 

Whereon  are  painted  homely  cares, 
Defeats  and  triumphs  and  despairs ; 
A  gallery  thronged  with  wider  themes 
Than  those  of  Rome. 

The  pictures  on  this  Dome  of  Dreams 

Are  memories. 

Young  Barefoot  wandering  through  the  dew, 
Through  daisied  fields  when  life  was  new, 
By  woodland  paths,  by  lilied  streams 
And  blossomed  trees. 

The  picture  of  a  maid  at  school 

With  floating  hair : 
Transfigured  in  the  mist  is  she 
On  that  dim  shore  of  memory, 
Life's  dewiness  about  her,  cool 
And  pure  and  fair. 


66  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

The  picture  of  a  road  that  leads 

From  an  old  home  : 
A  boy  that  from  a  wooded  swell 
Looks  through  his  tears  and  waves  farewell  — 
Then  down  through  unknown  hills  and  meads 
Afar  to  roam. 

The  pictures  of  the  long,  long  way 

He  travelled  far; 

Fair  fruited  hillsides  slanting  south, 
Baked  herbless  uplands  smit  with  drouth, 
And  night  paths  with  no  gleam  of  day  — 
Without  a  star. 

And  pictures  of  wide-sleeping  vales 

And  storm-tossed  waves ; 
Of  valleys  bathed  in  noonday  peace, 
Of  sheltered  harbors  of  release  ; 
And  glimpses  of  receding  sails ; 

Of  open  graves. 

And  pictures  of  fair  islands  set 

In  golden  foam ; 

And  pictures  of  black  wrecks  upcast 
On  barren  crags  by  many  a  blast  — 
But  on  !     Life  paints  more  pictures  yet 
Upon  that  dome. 


When  He  has  an  Idea  in  His  Head        67 


WHEN  HE  HAS  AN  IDEA  IN  HIS  HEAD 


No  mountains  can  stand  in  the  way  of  a  man 

Who  has  an  idea  in  his  head, 
No  whirlwinds  can  blow  him  away  from  his  plan 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head. 
He  is  scared  by  no  menace  of  mountainous  seas 
Or   the  heavens  sowing  thunderbolts  wide  on  the 

breeze  — 
If  his  idea  is  large,  it  is  larger  than  these  — 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head. 

The  loud  sons  of  thunder  may  bellow  their  wrath 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head, 
The  tumult  of  tongues  welter  over  his  path 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head  ; 
The  sound  of  the  shouters  may  sound  in  his  ear, 
The  blare  of  the  babblers  environ  him  near  — 
He  stalks  through  their  jangle  with  never  a  fear, 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head. 

He  has  looked  in  the  face  of  the  famine  and  smiled 

When  he  had  an  idea  in  his  head, 
Bared  his  neck  to  the  axe  with  a  soul  reconciled 

When  he  had  an  idea  in  his  head; 


68  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

He  has  stood  in  the  flame  with  a  light  in  his  eye 
That  outshone  the  fire  that  blazoned  the  sky  ; 
They  burned  him  to  cinders  —  his  thought  did  not 

die, 
When  he  had  an  idea  in  his  head. 

Shall  we  padlock  his  lips?     Shall  we  handcuff  his 
hands 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head  ? 
Shall  we   fetter   his  feet  and   his  arms  with   steel 
bands 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head  ? 
Very  well;  we  will  bind  him,  a  feasible  plan, 
Let  us  bind  him  and  all  of  his  pestilent  clan  — 
But  where  is  the  halter  can  tie  such  a  man 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head  ? 

No,  no  ;  turn  him  loose  ;  turn  him  loose  among  men 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head ; 
Let  him  carry  his  message  to  city  and  glen 

When  he  has  an  idea  in  his  head. 
Yes,  hold  back  the  tides  from  the  shore,  if  you  can, 
And  hold  back  the  bolt  from  the  cloud  with  your 

ban  — 
But  woe  to  the  man  who  would  fetter  the  man 

Who  has  an  idea  in  his  head. 


Uncanoni^ed  Saints  69 


UNCANONIZED  SAINTS 


NOT  all  the  saints  are  canonized  : 

There's  lots  of  'em  close  by; 
There's  some  of  'em  in  my  own  ward, 

Some  in  my  family; 
They're  thick  here  in  my  neighborhood, 

They  throng  here  in  my  street ; 
My  sidewalk  has  been  badly  worn 

By  their  promiscuous  feet. 

Not  all  the  heroes  of  the  world 

Are  apotheosized; 
Their  names  make  our  directories 

Of  very  ample  size  ; 
And  almost  every  family 

Whose  number  is  complete, 
Has  one  or  more  about  the  board 

When  they  sit  down  to  eat. 

Not  all  the  martyrs  of  the  world 

Are  in  the  Martyrology  ; 
Not  all  their  tribe  became  extinct 

In  some  remote  chronology. 


7°  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

Three  live  ones  talked  with  me  to-day, 

Five  passed  me  with  a  bow, 
I  met  a  dozen  at  the  store,  — 

There  goes  a  couple  now  ! 

The  ichthyosaurus  is  extinct, 

The  great  auk  is  no  more  ; 
But  heroes,  martyrs,  saints,  are  thick 

As  in  the  days  of  yore. 
Not  like  the  auk  and  mastodon 

Whose  bones  alone  are  found, 
These  are  the  types  that  still  persist 

And  evermore  abound. 

Why  weep  for  saints  long  dead  and  gone  ? 

There's  plenty  still  to  meet ; 
Put  on  your  wraps  and  call  upon 

The  saints  upon  your  street. 
Oh,  Plutarch's  heroes  were  strong  souls 

And  men  of  parts  and  pith,  — 
But  there's  McPeters  and  O'Brien, 

Stubbs,  Anderson,  and  Smith. 

And  Foxe's  martyrs  were  strong  souls, 

But  still  their  likes  remain  : 
There's  good  old  Mother  Haggerty, 

And  there  is  sweet  Aunt  Jane. 


Uncanoni^ed  Saints  71 

You  know  them  just  as  well  as  I, 
Since  they're  a  numerous  brood, 

For  they  are  with  you  all,  and  live 
In  every  neighborhood. 


72  50/^5  of  War  and  Peace 


THE  HIGHER   CARELESSNESS 


IT  happened  in  the  days  of  old 
Brahm  gave  a  man  an  egg  to  hold. 
"Hold  ye  this  egg,"  he  said,  "and  learn 
To  bide  in  peace  till  I  return." 
Then  from  the  earth  a  mist  upreared 
Wherein  the  great  Brahm  disappeared. 

n 

The  self-same  nour  in  days  of  old 

Brahm  gave  a  man  a  rod  to  hold, 

And  said,  "This  rod  is  grooved  to  gears 

Whereby  I  guide  the  moving  spheres; 

This  is  the  lever  rod  whereby 

I  move  the  worlds  that  throng  the  sky. 

Hold  ye  this  rod,"  he  said,  "  and  learn 

To  bide  in  peace  till  I  return." 

Then  through  a  thunder-cloud  he  steered, 

And  mid  the  lightnings  disappeared. 


The  Higher  Carelessness  73 

m 

The  man  who  held  the  egg  turned  pale, 

And  his  weak  heart  began  to  fail. 

"  Ah, "  groaned  he,  "  by  what  vain  decree 

Did  Brahm  assign  this  egg  to  me? 

This  universe  is  ruled,  'tis  plain, 

By  fickle  gods  of  little  brain; 

The  worlds  roll  on  in  aimless  dance 

To  jangled  tunes  of  brainless  chance; 

Men  are  but  animated  clods, 

The  trifling  playthings  of  the  gods; 

The  universe  is  built  on  guess, 

Its  base  is  laid  on  nothingness; 

And  Brahm,  he  plays  a  monster's  part, 

And  deep  I  hate  him  from  my  heart." 

His  heart  grew  cold  in  awful  doubt, 

His  hand  relaxed — -  the  egg  dropped  out, 

Fell  to  the  earth  without  delay, 

And  smashed,  as  eggs  will  smash  to-day. 

IV 

The  man  who  held  the  awful  rod 

Mused  on  the  greatness  of  the  god, 

Upon  the  wisdom  of  his  plan; 

The  awful  majesty  of  man ; 

The  great  eonian  goals  whereto 

The  worlds  are  moved  the  ages  through; 


74  Songs  of  War  ami  Peace 

The  cycles  of  the  cosmic  range, 

Their  upward  sweep  from  change  to  change; 

The  soul  of  goodness  at  the  core 

Of  nature's  heart  forevermore; 

And  all  his  soul  was  ravished  by 

The  spheral  music  harmony. 

"Brahm  plays,"  he  said,  "  a  father's  part, 

And  deep  I  love  him  from  my  heart." 

So,  rapt  in  wonderment  sublime, 

He  lost  the  sense  of  space  and  time, 

And  musing  on  the  ways  of  God  — 

Forgot  his  charge  and  dropped  the  rod. 


Then  through  the  deeps  of  space  were  hurled 
The  wrecks  of  many  a  shattered  world; 
And  many  a  sun  in  aimless  flight 
Shot  flaming  through  chaotic  night; 
From  their  eternal  stations  high 
The  stars  forsook  the  reeling  sky; 
And  Chaos  oped  its  Stygian  deep, 
(Drowsed  in  eternities  of  sleep), 
To  crown  Creation's  final  curse, 
And  gulp  the  ruined  universe. 

VI 

Then  Brahm  returned,  and  waved  his  hand 
In  silent  gesture  of  command, 


The  Higher  Carelessness  75 

And  moved  tow'rd  Chaos'  seething  swim, 
And  called  the  wild  suns  back  to  him. 
And,  back  from  bournless  gulfs  of  space, 
Each  star  returned  to  his  own  place. 
And  then,  with  a  benignant  nod, 
He  called  the  man  who  dropped  the  rod. 
The  man  who  dropped  the  egg  drew  near, 
And  stood  before  the  god  in  fear. 

VII 

Then  to  the  man  who  dropped  the  rod 
He  said,  "  Thou  art  beloved  of  God; 
And  unto  thee  henceforth  is  given 
The  guidance  of  the  lower  heaven." 
But  said  to  him  who  dropped  the  egg: 
"I  see  that  thou  art  still  a  dreg; 
I  re-incarnate  thee  anew 
Into  a  worm  — for  'tis  thy  due. 
Be  beast,  bird,  reptile  of  the  fen 
Ere  thou  emerge  a  man  agen. 
A  thousand  cycles  must  be  run 
Ere  thou,  as  man,  shalt  see  the  sun." 
"  I  only  dropped  an  egg, "  said  he, 
"  Then  why  impose  this  curse  on  me? 
And  why  not  give  to  him  thy  curse  — 
This  man  who  dropped  a  universe? 
But  unto  him  a  place  is  given, 
Vicegerent  of  the  lower  heaven." 


76  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

"  Ah,  learn,"  said  Brahm,  "  the  eternal  fact, 

It  is  the  thought  behind  the  act, 

And  not  the  act,  I  bless  or  ban, — 

The  motive,  not  the  deed,  of  man. 

He  loved,  while  thou  didst  hate.     Depart  — 

Depart,  and  be  the  worm  thou  art. " 


Jupiter  Flavins,  Jr.  77 


JUPITER   PLUVIUS,  JR. 


I  STAND,  in  evening's  shade  withdrawn, 

Mid  twilight's  dusky  forms, 
A  Jupiter  Pluvius  of  the  lawn, 

A  local  god  of  storms. 
Not  mine  Jove's  thunderbolts  which  clove 

The  blasted  heath  and  holt ; 
I  hold  the  storms  of  Pluvian  Jove 

Without  his  thunderbolt. 
The  nozzle  of  my  hose  I  press, 

And  proudly  take  my  stand  ; 
I  stand  and  pour  my  thunderless 

Tornadoes  on  the  land. 

I  grasp  the  nozzle  of  my  hose, 

And  proudly  I  opine 
Old  Adam's  Eden  life  was  prose 

Compared  to  life  like  mine. 
Why  for  his  hoseless  garden  sigh, 

And  for  his  hoseless  day  ? 
For  what's  a  garden  when  it's  dry 

Without  a  hose,  I  say  ? 
And  so  with  joy  I  walk  about, 

And  thread  the  evening  gloom, 


78  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

And  lug  my  wandering  waterspout 
And  portable  simoom. 

The  little  toads  look  up  to  me, 

And  though  they  all  are  dumb, 
They  think  :  "  Our  mighty  deity, 

The  god  of  storms,  has  come. 
From  his  benignant  hand  doth  fly 

The  rain  he  giveth  free, 
He  holds  the  cisterns  of  the  sky, 

The  fountains  of  the  sea  ; 
His  gracious  storms  new  hopes  infuse 

Through  all  the  fainting  land  — 
Behold  the  mighty  oceans  ooze 

Forever  from  his  hand." 

Outside  my  yard  the  hot  dog  star 

Rules  with  malefic  sway  — 
My  hose  turns  back  the  calendar, 

Within  my  yard,  to  May  ; 
I  heed  not  August's  fiery  thrill, 

For  well  I  understand 
A  man  can  carry,  if  he  will, 

His  climate  in  his  hand. 
Then  turn  the  nozzle  of  your  hose 

In  any  clime  or  zone, 
And  make,  the  while  its  current  flows, 

A  climate  of  your  own. 


Jupiter  Plwvius,  jr.  79 

The  hand  that  may  not  hold  the  sword, 

Or  guide  the  ship  of  state, 
Or  write  the  poet's  burning  word, 

Or  do  the  deeds  of  fate ; 
The  feeble  hand  of  little  worth 

For  battle  or  for  blows 
May  add  new  freshness  to  the  earth 

By  turning  on  the  hose. 
The  nozzle  of  my  hose  I  press, 

And  proudly  take  my  stand  ; 
I  stand  and  pour  my  thunderless 

Tornadoes  on  the  land. 


Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


MOTHER  ASIA 


MOTHER  ASIA,  we  stand  at  your  threshold. 

In  a  far  immemorial  yore 
We  left  you,  great  Mother  of  Nations, 

And  now  we  return  to  your  door. 
We  have  circled  the  seas  and  their  islands, 

We  have  found  us  new  worlds  in  the  main, 
We  have  found  us  young  brides  o'er  the  alien 
tides  — 

Now  we  come  to  our  mother  again. 

We  wandered  through  ages  unnumbered, 

We  were  mad  with  the  fever  to  roam, 
But  the  new  flag  that  waves  at  Manila 

Proclaims  that  your  sons  have  come  home. 
There  are  weeds  in  the  Gardens  of  Morning, 

There  are  mildew  and  dearth  and  decay, 
And  your  blind  days  are  drear  and  your  heart 
has  grown  sere 

The  years  that  your  sons  were  away. 

But  turn  your  old  eyes  to  the  seaward 
Where  the  flag  of  the  West  is  discerned. 


Mother  Asia  81 

Be  glad,  gray  old  Mother  of  Nations, 
The  youth  of  the  world  has  returned. 

They  come  with  the  wealth  of  their  wanderings, 
They  come  with  the  strength  of  their  pride ; 

Now,  old  mother,  arise  and  lift  up  your  dim 

eyes  — 
Behold  your  strong  sons  at  your  side ! 

They  will  toil  in  your  Gardens  of  Morning, 

They  will  cleanse  you  of  mire  and  fen ; 
You  shall  hear  the  glad  laughter  of  children, 

You  shall  see  the  strong  arms  of  young  men. 
New  hope  shall  come  back  to  your  borders, 

Despair  from  your  threshold  be  spurned, 
A  new  day  shall  rise  in  your  Orient  skies  — 

The  youth  of  the  world  has  returned. 


82  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


GRASSVALE'S  GREAT  MAN 


You  wouldn't  suppose  a  man  like  me,  a  hayseed  sort 

er  chap, 
Who  hain't  no  special  intellec'  nor  brains  beneath 

his  cap ; 
You  wouldn't  suppose  I'd  hev  a  son  who'd. be  a 

genyus,  hey? 
A  man  who'd  climb  the  height  er  fame  and  then 

set  down  an'  stay. 

I've  allus  been  a  plain  ol'  duff,  an'  Bill  he  was  my 

son  ; 
I  s'posed  he'd  do  the  kind  of  work  thet  I  hed  allus 

done; 
Chop  cord-wood,  dig  pertaters,  hoe  corn,  an  hoi'  the 

plough, 
An'  settle  down  an'  chew  his  cud  contented  as  a 

cow. 

But  Bill  he  warn't  that  kind  er  stuff,  for,  born  for 

mighty  things, 
He  vowed  that  he'd  hoi'  up  his  head  with  intellec- 

chul  kings ; 


Grass-vale's  Great  Man  83 

An'  now  he's  gone  an'  done  it;  he's  a  man  of  great 

renown, 
An'  Grassvale  now  has  give  the  worl'  a  great  man 

from  the  town. 

He's  gone  off  to   the  city;    everybody  knows  him 

there, 
An'  he  Stan's  there  for  ten  hours  a  day,  right  in  the 

public  square: 
An'  he's  a  big  policeman  there,  an'  stan's  there  in 

the  street, 
An'  straightens  out  the  tangle  w'en  the  teams  an' 

street-cars  meet. 

An'  everybody's  scat  of  him.     He  jest  hoi's  up  his 

hand, 
An'  the  hummin'  slam-bang  'lectric  car  will  come 

right  to  a  stand; 
The  cars  an'  teams  an'  kerridges  an'  hacks  will  all 

stan'  still, — 
For  ev'ry  blessed  soul  of  'em  is  scat  to  death  of  Bill. 

An'  he's  the  boss  of  all  the  street,  he  stan's  there 

in  the  swim, 

An'  no  one  dares  to  move  until  they  git  permish  of  him. 
He  waves  his  hand  —  the  teams  go  on  —  he  lifts  it, 

an'  they  stop  — 
To  think  a  humble  boy  like  Bill  should  climb  so  near 

the  top. 


84  Sotigs  of  War  and  Peace 

An'  this  ere  is  my  son,  my  boy.    I  never  dreamed  1  'd 

be 

The  father  of  a  genyus  so  tremendous  high  as  he  ; 
But  in  this  Ian'  the  poorest  lad  may  make  himself 

a  name, 
An'  a  poor  humble   kid,  like  Bill,  may  climb  the 

heights  er  fame. 


My  Properties  85 


MY  PROPERTIES 


I  OWN  no  park,  I  keep  no  horse, 

I  can't  afford  a  stable, 
I  have  no  cellar  stored  with  wine, 

I  set  a  frugal  table  ; 
But  still  some  property  is  mine, 

Enough  to  suit  my  notion  : 
I  own  a  mountain  toward  the  west, 

And  toward  the  east  an  ocean. 
Just  this  one  mountain  and  one  sea 
Are  property  enough  for  me. 

A  man  of  moderate  circumstance, 

A  frugal  man,  like  me, 
With  one  good  mountain  has  enough, 

Enough  with  one  good  sea. 
My  mountain  stretches  high  enough, 

Up  where  the  clouds  are  curled ; 
My  ocean  puts  its  arms  around 

The  bottom  of  the  world. 
I  do  not  fear  my  sea  will  dry  ; 
My  hill  will  last  as  long  as  I. 


86  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

I  cannot  glibly  talk  with  men, 

No  gift  of  tongues  have  I ; 
My  sea  and  mountain  talk  to  me, 

Expecting  no  reply. 
They  tell  me  tales  I  may  not  tell, 

But  tales  of  cosmic  worth, 
Of  conclaves  of  the  early  gods 

Who  ruled  the  infant  earth  ; 
Tales  of  an  unremembered  prime 
Told  by  Eternity  to  Time. 

And  so  I'm  glad  the  mountain's  mine, 

I'm  glad  I  own  the  sea, 
That  they  have  special  privacies 

Which  they  impart  to  me. 
It  took  eternity  to  learn 

The  tales  they  know  so  well, 
And  I  am  glad  these  tales  will  take 

Eternity  to  tell. 
I  do  not  fear  my  sea  will  dry ; 
My  hill  will  last  as  long  as  I. 


. 


Uncle  Sam's  Spring  Cleaning  87 


UNCLE  SAM.'S  SPRING   CLEANING 


"THERE  has  been  a  heap  of  rubbish  dumped  about 

the  patient  seas, 

And  all  cleaning  hitherto  has  been  a  sham  ; 
It  is  time  for  my  spring  cleaning — and  I  hope  you 

catch  my  meaning  — 

For  I'm  going  to  clean  'em  out,"  says  Uncle  Sam. 
"  And  I'm  going  to  rinse  'em  down, 
And  I'm  going  to  soak  'em  out, 
And  I'm  going  to  sponge  'em  off  and  make 'em  clean  ; 
And  I'll  do  a  handsome  job  with  my  scrubbing 

brush  and  swab, 
And  I'll  give  a  different  aspect  to  the  scene. 

On  the  Philippines,  a  dumpground  for  the  mediaeval 

truck 

And  the  old  miasmal  rubbish  heaps  of  Spain, 
I  began  my  vernal  cleaning  —  and   I    think   they 

know  my  meaning  — 

For  I  turned  my  hose  upon  them  at  full  strain. 
And  I  guess  I  swabbed  'em  down, 
And  I  guess  I  rubbed  it  in, 
And  I  guess  I  swashed  'em  off  and  made  'em  clean  •, 


88  Songs  of  War  atui  Peace 

And  when  I've  wiped  'em  dry  with  my  army  mop, 

says  I, 
There'll  be  a  different  aspect  to  the  scene. 

And  I'll  clean  off  Porto  Rico  and  I'm  going  to  wipe 

it  dry, 

And  poor  filth-infested  Cuba  must  be  clean  ; 
Four  hundred  years  of  lumber  that  its  rubbish  holes 

encumber  — 

If  you  wait  you'll  see  it  burn  like  kerosene. 
And  I  guess  I'll  soap  'em  down, 
And  I  guess  I'll  scour  'em  off, 
And  I  guess  I'll  turn  my  hose  on  at  full  strain ; 
And  then,  when  I  am  through,  then  old  Cuba  will 

be  new, 
And  there  won't  be  any  rubbish  heaps  of  Spain. 

She  has  blotted  all  the  oceans  and  I'll  wipe  her  off 

the  seas, 

And  I'll  cleanse  the  cluttered  islands  of  her  slime ; 
And  this  is  just  the  meaning  of  my  vigorous  spring 

cleaning  — 

Fate's  washing-day  has  come  —  and  it  is  time 
And  I  guess  when  I  have  soaped  'em, 
And  I  guess  when  I  have  wrung  'em, 
And  I  guess  when  I  have  hung  'em  out  to  dry, 

Not  a  single  blot  of  Spain  on  an  island  shall  remain, 
And  I  think  that  they'll  feel  cleaner  then,  says  I." 


The  Only  Man  in  the  World  89 


THE   ONLY  MAN  IN  THE    WORLD 


I  LIVED  in  a  hut  on  a  mountain  high, 

On  its  bowldered  summit  curled ; 
A  snow-storm  fell  on  the  mount,  and  I 

Was  the  only  man  in  the  world. 

The  snow  and  the  sky  and  the  stars  in  their  course 

Were  all  that  I  could  see; 
And  I  was  alone  with  the  Universe, 

And  the  Universe  with  me. 

Around  my  hut  the  winds  were  whirled, 

And  the  stars  looked  down  to  see; 
As  I  was  the  only  man  in  the  world, 

They  told  their  tales  to  me. 

The  heart  of  the  world  to  the  heart  of  a  man, 
When  the  world  and  the  man  are  alone, 

Tells  tales  that  few  since  the  world  began 
Have  ever  heard  or  known. 

And  often  I  sigh,  where  the  crowds  sweep  by 

And  the  human  tides  are  whirled, 
For  the  hut  on  the  pathless  mount  where  I 

Was  the  only  man  in  the  world. 


90  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


THE  RUSE  OF  JOHN  P.  JOCK 


YES,  I'm  the  Shagbark  County  Bard.     An'  so  you 

come  to  see 

How  I  attained  my  wide  renown  an'  popularity? 
I  ain't  no  flower  to  blush  unseen,  an'  I  don't  crawl, 

yer  see, 
A  poor  unreco'nized  galoot  to  all  eternity. 

The  Shagbark  County  Clarion  wouldn't  take  a  word 

I  wrote, 

Its  editor's  a  ignorant,  uneducated  goat; 
If  I'd  been  a  common  genius,  I'd  a  languished  on 

unknown  — 
But   I   ain't  no  wilted  violet  to  droop  beneath  a 

stone. 

So  I  got  a  man  to  write  to  him,  "  If  he  would  kindly 

print 
That  most  transcendent  piece  of  verse  known  as 

'The  Demon's  Hint.'" 

So  I  got  a  man  to  send  it  in  —  I  had  it  in  my  frock  — 
"I  send  'The  Demon's  Hint,'"  he  wrote,  "by  Mr. 

John  P.  Jock." 


The  Ruse  of  John  P.  Jock  91 

"  The  editor  he  printed  it,  the  author's  name  and  all. 

Next  week  an  old  subscriber  asked  for  "  Lines  on 
Early  Fall" 

Another  fellow  sent  them  in,  an'  wrote,  "  I've  al 
ways  held 

These  lines  on  '  Fall '  by  John  P.  Jock  are  surely 
unexcelled." 

Next  week  a  fellow  asked  him  for  "The  Mystery  of 

the  Stars," 
Apiece  "that  had  consoled  his  life  through  many 

jolts  an'  jars." 

I  got  a  man  to  send  it  in  —  as  reg'lar  as  a  clock  — 
Who  wrote,   "  I  send  these  wondrous  words  by  Mr. 

John  P.  Jock." 

Next  day  he  got  a  postal  card  that  gave  his  soul  a 

shock, 

"  Cut  down  your  editorials  and  publish  more  of  Jock." 
"  Give  us  more  Jock,"  the  words  came  up  from  all 

parts  of  the  State, 
."More  poetry  by  John  P.  Jock,  a  man  supremely  great." 

So  I'm  the  Shagbark  County  Bard;  an'  now,  my 

friend,  you  see 

How  I  attained  my  wide  renown  an'  popularity. 
I  ain't  no  flower  to  blush  unseen,  an'  I  don't  crawl, 

yer  see, 
A  poor  unreco'nized  galoot  to  all  eternity. 


92  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


THE  FRIENDLY,  FLOWING  SAVAGE 


The  friendly  and  flowing  savage,  who  is  he  ? 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

THE  friendly,  flowing  savage,  this  is  his  proof  and 
test: 

He  is  low  as  the  lowest 
And  high  as  the  highest 

And  good  as  the  best. 
And  he  goes  forth  and  learns  of  men. 

The  whole  world  is  his  school, 
The  bad  man  and  the  good  man, 
The  learned  man  and  the  fool. 
The  proud  man  and  the  meek  man, 

The  great  man  and  the  small ; 
The  friendly,  flowing  savage  absorbs  and  loves  them 
all. 

The  friendly,  flowing  savage,  he  eats  the  meat  of 
life, 

Loves  the  stress  of  its  battle, 
The  rush  of  its  onset, 

The  pride  of  its  strife. 


The  Friendly,  Flowing  Savage  93 

His  hand  is  facile  to  the  axe, 

And  supple  to  the  pen, 
And  the  jack-plane  and  the  crowbar  — 

He  is  a  man  of  men. 
The  desk  man,  school  man,  field  man, 

Of  coarse  or  finer  clay, 
The  friendly,  flowing  savage  is  coarse  and  fine  as 

they. 

The  friendly,  flowing  savage,  he  has  wise  ears  to 
hear; 

The  sounds  of  the  sidewalk, 
The  clink  of  the  kitchen, 
Are  sweet  to  his  ear. 
He  loves  the  rhythm  of  the  axe, 
The  schooner's  flapping  sheet ; 
And  the  babe's  cluck  and  the  boy's  shout 

And  the  girl's  laugh,  all  are  sweet. 
And  the  slave's  groan  and  the  child's  sob, 

And  the  great  cries  and  the  small ; 
The  friendly,   flowing  savage,  he  hears  and  feels 
them  all. 

The  friendly,  flowing  savage,  his  heart  is  wise  to 
feel 

The  joy  of  the  victors, 
The  shame  of  the  conquered, 
Their  woe  and  their  weal. 


94  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

It  vibrates  to  the  playground's  shout, 
And  the  sound  of  swords  that  smite 
When  the  hate  of  years  and  the  pride  of  kings 

Come  to  the  clash  of  fight. 
And  the  world's  shouts  and  the  world's  groans, 

Its  heart  throbs,  great  and  small ; 
The  friendly,  flowing  savage,  he  knows  and  feels 
them  all. 


The  Pageant 


THE  PAGEANT 


THE  hand  of  time  is  free  and  unconfined, 

And  sows  its  wide  delights ; 
It  sows  the  lavish  days  among  mankind, 

And  sows  the  sumptuous  nights. 
It  sends  the  June-tide's  pulsing  overflow 
Crested  with  foam  of  roses  all  ablow, 
And  flaunts  the  flying  banners  of  the  snow 

From  all  the  wintry  heights ! 

Bosomed  in  beauty  of  the  night  and  day, 

The  glories  of  the  year, 
Man  gropes  amid  the  grandeur  on  his  way 

To  grasp  inglorious  gear. 

Ah,  could  he  see  the  splendors  round  him  throng, 
The  Pageant  of  the  Vision  sweep  along, 
Then  every  soul  would  be  a  priest  of  song 

And  every  man  a  seer. 

The  pageant  of  the  vision  still  sweeps  on, 

The  ages  come  and  flee  ; 
The  beauty  of  the  long  years  that  have  gone 

Forevermore  shall  be. 


&  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

And  age  by  age  the  eyes  of  men  shall  gaze 
On  beauty,  clearer  with  the  fleeing  days, 
Till  every  voice  shall  raise  the  hymn  of  praise  — 
For  every  eye  shall  see. 


The  Tree  Lover  97 


THE    TREE  LOVER 


WHO  loves  a  tree  he  loves  the  life  that  springs  in 

star  and  clod ; 
He  loves  the  love  that  gilds  the  clouds  and  greens 

the  April  sod ; 
He  loves  the  Wide  Beneficence.  His  soul  takes 

hold  on  God. 

A  tree  is  one  of  nature's  words,  a  word  of  peace  to 

man, 
A  word  that  tells  of  central  strength  from  whence 

all  things  began, 
A  word  to  preach  tranquillity  to  all  our  restless  clan. 

Ah,  bare  must  be  the  shadeless  ways,  and  bleak  the 

path  must  be, 
Of  him  who,  having  open  eyes,  has  never  learned  to 

see, 
And  so  has  never  learned  to  love  the  beauty  of  a 

tree. 

'Tis  well  for  man  to  mix  with  men,  to  drive  his 
stubborn  quest 


98  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

In  harbored  cities  where  the  ships  come  from  the 

East  and  West, 
To  fare  forth  where  the  tumult  roars,  and  scorn  the 

name  of  rest. 

'Tis  well  the  current  of  his  life  should  toward  the 

deeps  be  whirled, 
And  feel  the  clash  of  alien  waves  along  its  channel 

swirled, 
And  the  conflux  of  the  eddies  of  the  mighty-flowing 

world. 

But  he  is  wise  who,  'mid  what  noise  his  winding 

way  may  be, 
Still  keeps  a  heart  that  holds  a  nook  of  calm 

serenity, 
And  an  inviolate  virgin  soul  that  still  can  love  a 

tree. 

Who  loves  a  tree  he  loves  the  life  that  springs  in 

star  and  clod, 
He  loves  the  love  that  gilds  the  clouds  and  greens 

the  April  sod ; 
He  loves  the  Wide  Beneficence.  His  soul  takes 

hold  on  God. 


99 


WHEN  PETER  SANG 


WHEN  Peter  sang  the  rafters  rang, 
He  made  the  great  church  reel ; 
His  voice  it  rang  a  clarion  clang, 

Or  like  a  cannon's  peal. 
Yes,  Peter  made  the  rafters  ring, 
And  never  curbed  his  tongue  ; 
Albeit  Peter  could  not  sing, 

Yet  Peter  always  sung. 
Ah,  wide  did  he  his  wild  voice  fling 

Promiscuous  and  free ; 
Despite  the  fact  he  could  not  sing, 
Why,  all  the  more  sang  he. 
With  clamorous  clang 
And  resonant  bang 
His  thunders  round  he  flung ; 
He  could  not  sing 
One  single  thing  : 
Yet  Peter  always  sung. 

The  choir  sang  loud,  and  all  the  crowd 
Took  up  the  holy  strain  ; 


ioo  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

But  Peter's  bawl  rose  over  all 

Tempestuously  plain.  ^ 

The  organ  roared)  and  madly  poured 

Its  music  flood  around, 
But  Peter  drowned  its  anthem  loud 

In  cataracts  of  sound. 
The  people  hushed,  the  choir  grew  still, 

Still  grew  the  organ's  tone, 
Then  Peter's  voice  rose  loud  and  shrill, 
For  Peter  sang  alone. 
His  clamorous  shout 
Had  drowned  them  out, 
And  silenced  every  tongue  ; 
He  could  not  sing 
One  single  thing: 
Yet  Peter  always  sung. 


When  Peter  died  the  people  cried, 

For  Peter  he  was  good, 
Although  his  voice  produced  a  noise 

Not  easily  withstood. 
Though  many  cried  when  Peter  died 

And  gained  his  golden  lyre, 
They  nursed  a  heartfelt  sympathy 

For  heaven's  augmented  choir. 
They  knew  where'er  his  soul  might  be 

Loud  would  his  accents  ring. 


When  Peter  Sang  101 


He'd  sing  through  all  eternity 
The  songs  he  could  not  sing. 

The  heavenly  choir 

He'd  make  perspire 
And  heavenly  arches  ring ; 

Though  he  can't  sing 

One  single  thing, 
For  evermore  he'll  sing. 


IO2  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

4 

A    THINKER   ON  THINKERS 


OUR  good  ol'  Elder  Hombleton  he  said  he  thought 

I  ought 
To  git  acquainted  with  the  lords  an'  emperors  of 

thought ; 

He  said  I  had  sich  nateral  capacities  of  mind 
That  I  ought  to  git  familiar  with  the  thinkers  of 

mankind. 

An'  so  he  fetched  me  Shakespeare's  plays,  an'  Mil 
ton's  poems,  too, 
An'  ol'  George  Eliot's  novels  next  for  me  to  waller 

through. 
An'  so  I  wallered  through  'em  all,  read  through  the 

whole  long  shelf  : 
An'  all  the  more  I  read  their  stuff  the  more  I  loved 

myself. 

W'y,   now,  jest   look   at   Shakespeare :   poof !  that 

foolish  people  praise. 

He  made  a  terrible  mistake  to  go  to  writin'  plays, 
The  man  couldn't  think ;  he  rambles  on  and  jumps 

from  this  to  that, 
An'  I  dunno,  an'  he  dunno,  jest  w'at  he's  drivin'  at. 


A  Thinker  on  Thinkers  103 

I've  thought  more  thoughts,  out  here  to  work ;  I've 

thought  more  in  one  day, 
More  genyuine  thoughts  than  he  could  stick  in  one 

whole  ramblin'  play. 
There    might   be   good    plays   written,   sir ;    plays 

number  one  an'  prime  — 
But  I  must  carry  on  my  farm,  an'  I  hain't  got  the  time. 

Now  there's  John  Milton's  poetry  that  makes  sich 

hullaballoo, 
'Tain't  sense,  'tain't  rhyme,  'tain't  argiment,  an'  I 

don't  b'lieve  it's  true. 
They  call  him  a  great  thinker,  hey  ?     His  thoughts 

are  great  an'  high  ? 
If  he's   a   thinker,    Lord   alive !     Good   Gracious ! 

w'at  am  I  ? 
jHe's  got  some  gift  for  words,  I  know ;  but  he  can't 

string  'em.     See  ? 
'Can't  string  'em  so   they'll   make  a  thought  that 

holds  up  an  idee. 
There   might  be   poetry  written,   sir,   chockfull   of 

thought  sublime. 
But  I  must  carry  on  my  farm,  an'  I  hain't  got  the  time. 

Now,  there's  George  Eliot's  novels,  wall,  I  never 

seen  the  man, 
An'  I  wouldn't  hurt  his  feelin's,  but  the  stuff  he 

writ,  I  swan ! 


IO4  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

He  tries  to  tell  us  stories,  but  he  hain't  got  none  to 

tell; 
W'y,  I  could  tell  'em  twice  as  quick,  an'  forty  times 

as  well. 
But  I've  jest  wallered  through  'em  all,  read  through 

the  whole  long  shelf, 
An'  all  the  more  I've  read  the  stuff  the  more  I've 

loved  myself. 
But  there  might  be  novels  written  that  would  be 

first-class  and  prime ; 
But  I  mus'  carry  on  my  farm,  an'  I  hain't  got  the 

time. 


The  Song  of  the  Hoe  105 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  HOE 


HEAR  ye  the  song  of  the  hoe, 

And  hear  ye  without  scorn ; 
The  ring  of  my  blade  on  the  hill  or  the  glade 

Is  music  to  the  corn. 
And  the  old  heart  of  the  hill, 
It  pulses  with  the  thrill, 

And  sends  its  sap  aflow; 
And  it  flows  into  the  corn, 
And  a  gladder  life  is  born 

When  it  hears  the  song  of  the  hoe. 

Hear  ye  the  song  of  the  hoe. 

And  what  is  the  song  I  sing  ? 
'Tis  a  sweeter  rune  if  your  ear  is  a-tune 

Than  the  harper's  song  to  the  king; 
'Tis  a  song  of  joy,  not  of  tears, 

How  the  earth  for  a  million  years 

Will  bud  and  blossom  and  grow, 
And  still  be  glad  and  young 
Whenever  my  song  is  sung, 

When  it  hears  the  song  of  the  hoe. 


io6  Songs  of  War  and  I'cace 

Hear  ye  the  song  of  the  hoe. 

I  sing  of  the  things  I  hear; 
The  thoughts  down  deep  in  the  old  earth's 
keep, 

Are  whispered  in  my  ear. 
And  the  corn  can  understand, 
And  it  tells  the  smiling  land 

(Far  doth  the  message  go), 
The  thoughts  that  have  their  birth 
From  the  old  young  heart  of  the  earth, 

That  are  sung  in  the  song  of  the  hoe. 

Hear  ye  the  song  of  the  hoe. 

'Tis  an  honest  song  and  true, 
And  good  for  men  again  and  again, 

And  good  for  you  and  you. 
It  sings  of  the  deep-down  things, 
Of  the  world's  first  lore  it  sings, 

The  world-heart's  overflow; 
And  it  tells  your  sallow  brood 
The  heart  of  the  world  is  good  — 

Then  hear  ye  the  song  of  the  hoe. 

Hear  ye  the  song  of  the  hoe 

That  floats  with  the  smell  of  the  soil, 

That  tells  of  the  wealth  of  the  old  earth's 

health, 
Of  the  metre  and  music  of  toil. 


The  Song  of  the  Hoe  107 

And  this  is  the  core  of  its  song, 
That  the  earth  is  made  for  the  strong, 

Nor  yields  up  its  wealth  to  the  slow; 
And  that  labor  is  love  and  delight 
To  those  who  are  fain  for  the  fight  — 

Then  hear  ye  the  song  of  the  hoe. 


io8  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


*        TOM  PH ELAN'S  HAUNTED  BARN 


SEE  that  ol'  barn  jest  over  there  that's  so  tipped-up 

an'  canted, 
That  kinder  tumble-down  affair?  —  Wall,  that  ol' 

barn  is  han'ted. 
That  used  to  be  Tom  Phelan's  barn,  who  died  in 

eighty-seven, 
Who  tried  his  best  for  sixty  years  to  fit  himself  for 

heaven. 

Tom  said  all  kinds  er  piety  was  nothin'  but  pre 
tences 

Onless  yer  mortified  yer  pride  an'  kep'  down  yer 
expenses ; 

The  way,  he  said,  to  git  to  heaven  was  not  by  livin' 
gayly  — 

But  you  mus'  clothe  yer  back  in  rags  an'  scrimp  yer 
stomach  daily. 

He  said  that  he  could  dress  himself  three  year  for 

twenty  dollars, 
By    jest    renouncin'    stockin's,    shoes,    an'    under 

clo'es  an'  collars, 


Tom  Pbelan's  Haunted  Barn  109 

An'   wearin'  meal-bag  pantaloons  —  for  they  wore 

jest  like  iron  — 
Were  jest  as  good  as  any  dood's,  an'  easier  to  try 

on. 

So  in  one  corner  of  his  barn  he  rigged  a  place  to 

stay  there, 
An'  in  col'  winter  nights  he  slep'  all  covered  up 

with  hay  there ; 
An'  if  his  feet  got  very  col'  a-sleepin'  on  his  mow 

there, 
W'y  he'd  crawl  out  a  little  while  an'  warm  'em  on 

his  cow  there. 

He   had  an  ol'  tin-b'iler  stove  he  uster  cook  his 

meal  on, 
An'  one  pertater  twice  a  day  (he  et  it  with  the  peel 

on); 
He  had  an  apple  once  a  week,  an'  once  when  very 

sinful 
He  baked  a  pan  of   Johnnycake  an'   et  a  half  a 

tinful. 

An'  jest  to  save  his  candle-light  he  went  to  bed  at 

seven  — 
An'  one  night  he  awoke  surprized  an'  found  himself 

in  heaven. 


no  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

He'd  changed  his  barn  an'  his  ol'  cow,  tied  to  her 
rattlin'  stanchion, 

For  a  gran'  home  in  Paradise  an'  a  celestial  man 
sion. 

But  up  there  in  his  robes  of  white,  amid  celestial 

toons  there, 
He    mourned   his   bedtick   overcoat   an'  meal-bag 

pantaloons  there; 
The  furnishings  were  far  too  rich,  the  draperies  too 

extensive ; 
All    the   upholstery  an'  sich    he   thought   was  too 

expensive. 

An'  all  the  time  he  walked  the  streets  he  skurce 

could  keep  from  ravin' 
About  the  great  extravagance  of   all    that  golden 

pavin'. 
The  jasper  an'  the  topaz  walls  he  thought  too  great 

expense  there  — 
Twould  serve  the  purpose  jest  as  well  —  a  good 

barbed-wire  fence  there. 

One  day  he  went  to  Gabriel  in  very  great  consarn 

there, 
To  try  to  get  permission  for  to  build  a  wooden  barn 

there; 


Tom  Pbelan's  Haunted  Barn  1 1 i 

When  Gabriel  refused  p'int-blank,  his  angry  soul 

did  steer  ag'in 
Back  to  this  tumble-down  ol'  barn  an'  went  to  livin' 

here  ag'in. 

An'  here  at  midnight  ev'ry  night,  the  ghost  of  ol' 

Tom  Phelan 
Gits  out  its  ol'  tin-b'iler  stove  to  cook  its  ghostly 

meal  on; 
An'  people  say  who  hear  his  sighs  an'  awful  sobs 

an'  moanin': 
"  For  Gabriel's  extravagance  Tom  Phelan's  ghost  is 

groanin'." 


1 1 2  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


AN  ART  CRITIC 


HE'S  smart,  our  boarder's  smart,  they  say, 

Say  he's  almighty  smart. 
An'  what's  he  do :     Wall,  what  d'ye  think? 

A  lecturer  on  art ! 
A  lecturer  on  art !     Good  Lord ! 

An'  what  the  deuce  is  art? 
A  mess  of  good-for-nothin'  gush  — 

But  our  girls  think  he's  smart. 
"What's  art? "  I  says  to  him  one  day, 

"  'Taint  bread,  nor  cheese,  nor  meat ; 
'Taint  pie,  nor  pudd'n',  nor  corn'-beef, 

Nor  nothin'  fit  to  eat." 
An'  he  caved  in  an'  owned  right  up 

Twarn't  nothin'  fit  to  eat. 

My  girls  take  everything  he  says 

Without  a  gasp  or  gulp, 
'Bout  skulpin'  marble  images, 

An'  fools  who  love  to  skulp. 
I  want  no  skulpin's  in  my  house, 

No  images  for  me. 


An  Art  Critic  113 

"You  can't  eat  images,"  I  says, 

"Then  what  is  their  idee?" 
"They  express  the  ideel  sense,"  says  he. 

"  But  they  aint  corn,  nor  wheat, 
Nor  flapjacks,  succotash,  nor  pork, 

Nor  nothin'  fit  to  eat." 
I  squelched  him,  an'  he  owned  right  up 

That  they  warn't  fit  to  eat. 

He  showed  a  picture  t'other  day 

That  made  a  monstrous  hit, 
A  picture  of  a  durned  ol'  cow 

They  said  was  exquisite. 
"How  much  milk  does  your  picture  give?" 

Says  I  to  him  one  day; 
An'  you'd  ought  to  seen  him  wiggle, 

For  he  didn'  know  what  to  say. 
"  My  cows  give  milk  an'  make  good  steak 

That's  mighty  hard  to  beat; 
But  that  ar  painted  cow  of  yourn, 

Is  she  good  steak  to  eat? " 
He  hemmed  an'  hawed  an'  squirmed,  and 
owned 

That  she  warn't  fit  to  eat. 

Git  out  with  art!     Stone  images 
An'  picture  filagree! 


1 1 4  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

O  vittles!  vittles  is  the  stuff 

That  suits  the  likes  of  me. 
Humph!  art  or  vittles?   What's  your  choice? 

Stone  images  or  pie  ? 
Pictures  of  cows  or  cows  themselves?  — 

"  The  cows  themselves  1 "  say  I. 
"Yes,  Turner's  pictures,"  said  the  fool, 

"  Are  very  hard  to  beat." 
"Are  they  best  baked  or  biled?  "  said  I, 

"An'  are  they  fit  to  eat?" 
An'  then  the  fool  he  owned  right  up 

That  they  warn't  fit  to  eat. 


The  Song  of  Dcwey  's  Onus  1 1 5 


THE  SOJVG   OF  DEWEY^S  GUNS 


WHAT  is  this  thunder-music  from  the  other  side  of 

the  world, 
That  pulses  through  the  severing  seas  and  round 

the  planet  runs? 
'Tis  the  death-song  of  old  Spain  floating  from  the 

Asian  main; 
There's  a  tale  of  crumbling  empire  in  the  song  of 

Dewey's  guns ! 

The  hand  that  held  the  sceptre  once  of  all  the  great 

world  seas, 
And  paved  its  march  with  dead  men's  bones  'neath 

all  the  circling  suns, 
Grew  faint  with  deadly  fear  when  that  thunder  song 

drew  near, 
For  the  dirge  of  Spain  was  sounded  by  the  song  of 

Dewey's  guns ! 

There  is  music  in  a  cannon  yet  for  all  the  Sons  of 

Peace  — 
Yea,  the  porthole's  belching  anthem  is  soft  music 

to  her  sons 


n6  Songs  of  Wa\  and  Peace 

When  the    iron  thunder-song   sings  the   death  of 

ancient  wrong  — 
And  a  dying  wrong  was  chanted   by  the   song  of 

Dewey's  guns. 


The  Infidel 


THE  INFIDEL 


WHO  is  the  infidel  ?     'Tis  he 

Who  deems  man's  thought  should  not  be  free, 

Who'd  veil  truth's  faintest  ray  of  light 

From  breaking  on  the  human  sight; 

'Tis  he  who -'purposes  to  bind 

The  slightest  fetter  on  the  mind, 

Who  fears  lest  wreck  and  wrong  be  wrought 

To  leave  man  loose  with  his  own  thought; 

Who,  in  the  clash  of  brain  with  brain, 

Is  fearful  lest  the  truth  be  slain, 

That  wrong  may  win  and  right  may  flee  — 

This  is  the  infidel.      'Tis  he. 

Who  is  the  infidel  ?     'Tis  he 

Who  puts  a  bound  on  what  may  be ; 

Who  fears  time's  upward  slope  shall  end 

On  some  far  summit  —  and  descend; 

Who  trembles  lest  the  long-borne  light, 

Far-seen,  shall  lose  itself  in  night; 

Who  doubts  that  life  shall  rise  from  death 

When  the  old  order  perisheth ; 

That  all  God's  spaces  may  be  cross't 

And  not  a  single  soul  be  lost  — 


1 1 8  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

Who  doubts  all  this,  who'er  he  be, 
This  is  the  infidel.     'Tis  he. 

Who  is  the  infidel?     'Tis  he 
Who  from  his  soul's  own  light  would  flee; 
Who  drowns  with  creeds  of  noise  and  din 
The  still  small  voice  that  speaks  within; 
'Tis  he  whose  jangled  soul  has  leaned 
To  that  bad  lesson  of  the  fiend, 
That  worlds  roll  on  in  lawless  dance, 
Nowhither  through  the  gulfs  of  chance; 
And  that  some  feet  may  never  press 
A  pathway  through  the  wilderness 
From  midnight  to  the  morn-to-be  — 
This  is  the  infidel.     Tis  he. 

Who  is  the  infidel  ?     'Tis  he 
Who  sees  no  beauty  in  a  tree ; 
For  whom  no  world-deep  music  hides 
In  the  wide  anthem  of  the  tides; 
For  whom  no  glad  bird-carol  thrills 
From  off  the  million-throated  hills; 
Who  sees  no  order  in  the  high 
Procession  of  the  star-sown  sky; 
Who  never  feels  his  heart  beguiled 
By  the  glad  prattle  of  a  child ; 
Who  has  no  dreams  of  things  to  be  — 
This  is  the  infidel.     'Tis  he. 


Listen  to  Yourself  119 


LISTEN  TO    YOURSELF 


AH,  teacher,  let  me  hear  you  teach ; 

You  have  brave  words  from  olden  seers, 
The  lore  of  those  long-bearded  men 

Of  all  the  far-off  years ; 
The  gray  old  thoughts  of  gray  old  men 

Beneath  the  Asian  stars, 
Brought  safe  by  fate  through  clashing  years 

Of  unremembered  wars. 
And  you  have  read  the  huddled  tomes 

Of  many  an  alcoved  shelf  ; 
But  have  you  stood  beneath  the  stars 

And  listened  to  yourself  ? 

Ah,  teacher,  let  me  hear  you  teach ; 

You  at  old  sages'  feet  have  sat; 
Know  you  the  man  within  your  coat, 

The  man  beneath  your  hat  ? 
You  know  the  thoughts  that  shaped  the  world, 

From  far-off  centuries  blown ; 
What  says  the  man  who  talks  with  thee 

When  thou  art  all  alone  ? 


I2O  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

Why  should  I  listen  to  a  man 

Who  listens  at  the  alcoved  shelf  ? 

Man,  let  me  hear  a  living  man 
Who  listens  to  himself. 


The  Classics  121 


THE   CLASSICS 


LET  me  always  read  the  classics. 

There  are  bardlings  of  a  day, 
Fames  from  twilight  unto  twilight ; 

But  the  classics  ever  stay. 
And  the  classics  are  the  voices 

Of  the  mountain  and  the  glen 
And  the  multitudinous  ocean 

And  the  city  filled  with  men,  — 
Voices  of  a  deeper  meaning 

Than  all  drippings  of  the  pen. 

Yes,  the  mountains  are  a  classic, 

And  an  older  word  they  speak 
Than  the  classics  of  the  Hebrew 

Or  the  Hindoo  or  the  Greek. 
Dumb  are  they,  like  all  the  classics, 

Till  the  chosen  one  draws  near, 
Who  can  catch  their  inner  voices 

With  the  ear  behind  the  ear ; 
And  their  words  are  high  and  mystic,  — 

But  the  chosen  one  can  hear. 


122  So/igs  of  War  and  Peace 

And  the  ocean  is  a  classic. 

Where's  the  scribe  shall  read  its  word, 
Word  grown  old  before  the  Attic 

Or  Ionian  bards  were  heard, 
Word  once  whispered  unto  Homer, 

Sown  within  his  fruitful  heart,  — 
And  he  caught  a  broken  message, 

But  he  only  heard  a  part. 
Listen,  thou  ;  forget  the  babblings 

And  the  pedantries  of  art. 

And  the  city  is  a  classic,  — 

Aye,  the  city  filled  with  men ; 
Here  the  comic,  epic,  tragic, 

Beyond  painting  of  the  pen. 
And  who  rightly  reads  the  classic 

Of  the  city,  million-trod, 
Ranges  farther  than  the  sky-line, 

Burrows  deeper  than  the  sod, 
And  his  soul  beholds  the  secrets 

Of  the  mysteries  of  God. 

Give  to  me  to  read  these  classics :  — 
Life  is  short  from  youth  to  age ; 

But  its  fleetness  is  not  wasted 
If  I  master  but  a  page. 


The  Twins  123 


THE  TWINS 


Two  babes  were  born.     The  fields  of  corn, 
Laved  in  the  lushness  of  the  morn, 
And  murmurous  stretches  of  tall  grain, 
Waved  round  the  birthplace  of  the  twain. 
And  sentinel  hills  around  the  glen 
Kept  guard  about  the  twin-born  men,  — 
Twin-born  beside  a  country  lane, 
Their  sundered  lots  and  lives  made  plain 
The  twinless  nature  of  the  twain. 

Above  the  gleams  of  mountain  streams 
For  one  there  loomed  the  Wraith  of  Dreams, 
And  ever  motioned  with  her  hand 
To  some  far  height  in  some  far  land, 
To  some  far  land  of  high  emprise 
Where  unknown  seas  meet  unknown  skies.  — 
And  forth  he  fared  and  travelled  far 
To  lands  beneath  the  Morning  Star, 
And  where  the  Sunset  Islands  are. 

"  Oh,  far  away  doth  Beauty  stray 
Beside  the  distant  founts  of  day." 


124  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

He  followed  till  these  founts  were  found, 
And  saw  her  footprint  on  the  ground, 
Where  she  had  leaped  to  take  her  flight 
On  to  the  distant  baths  of  night. 
But  at  the  baths  of  night  afar 
Her  robe,  that  sparkles  like  the  spar, 
Vanished  behind  a  lonely  star. 

Through  shadows  gray  he  groped  his  way, 
Through  dim  old  lands  of  yesterday, 
And  where,  lapped  in  a  shipless  sea, 
The  empires  of  to-morrow  be. 
And  far  o'er  misty  mounts  and  meads 
He  chased  the  Vision  that  Recedes. 

He  chased  through  morning's  rosy  light 
And  through  the  falling  mists  of  night 
The  white  Wraith  of  the  Backward  Flight. 

Borne  far  along  from  hills  of  song 
He  heard  dim,  murmurous  anthems  throng  ; 
When  through  the  desert  he  had  come 
He  found  the  Hills  of  Song  were  dumb ; 
But  from  their  skyey  summits  he 
Saw  through  far  mist  the  Halcyon  Sea. 
When  near  the  sea  he  heard  the  roar 
Of  angry  breakers  evermore  — 
And  shattered  wrecks  were  on  the  shore. 


The  Twins  125 

O'er  sea  and  sand  through  every  land 
This  Pilgrim  of  the  Reaching  Hand, 
This  Traveller  of  the  Forward  Gaze, 
Fared  for  a  weary  length  of  days. 
His  Phantom  beckoned  and  was  gone, 
The  Phantom-chaser  followed  on. — 
His  grave  is  in  a  lonely  land, 
By  rainless  skies  forever  scanned, 
And  vultures  scream  above  the  sand. 


H 

The  twin-born  child  lived  in  his  wild 

And  native  mountains  reconciled, 

And  there  within  his  valley  curled 

Fed  on  the  largess  of  the  world ; 

And  there,  among  his  lowly  peers, 

He  drank  the  fulness  of  the  years. 

With  Nature's  thought  the  hills  were  thrilled, 
Her  thought  was  through  the  skies  distilled  — 
His  soul  was  open,  and  was  filled. 

The  brook  that  flees  through  lowland  leas 
Knows  all  the  secrets  of  the  seas ; 
And  from  the  brook  beside  his  door 
He  gathered  every  ocean's  lore. 
And  there  were  galleons  of  cloud 
From  seas  no  ship  had  ever  ploughed, 


126  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

Aerial  merchantmen  that  swim 
From  Fancy's  farthest  islands  dim, 
To  bring  their  freight  of  dreams  to  him. 

And  there  were  trees  where  every  breeze 

Played  its  Eolian  melodies; 

And  Orient  voices  in  the  wind, 

Sang  of  the  morning  of  mankind; 

And  every  morn  the  unsullied  dew 

Proved  the  world's  morning  still  was  new. 
The  orchard  songster's  hymn  of  praise 
Showed  him  how  near  were  Eden's  lays, 
How  far  away  the  evil  days. 

Through  forests  lone  and  overblown 
Of  night  winds  came  a  deeper  tone ; 
There  did  the  wind's  loud  anthems  roll 
Cathedral  thoughts  that  fill  the  soul, 
Great  themes,  from  no  vain  babblings  spun, 
That  weave  man's  thought  and  God's  as  one. 
He  heard  these  anthems  in  the  air 
That  brought  him  thoughts  he  might  not 

share, 
Far  thoughts  —  for  every  thought  was  prayer. 

So  resting  here  without  a  fear, 
The  Vision  that  Recedes  drew  near. 


The  Twins  127 

Each  day  approached  with  friendlier  grace 

The  smiling  calmness  of  her  face; 

Each  day  he  saw  with  new  surprise 

The  nearing  beauty  of  her  eyes. 
He  sleeps  beneath  a  mossy  mound 
That  strawberry-tendrils  twine  around, 
And  apple-blossoms  strew  the  ground. 


128  Songs  of  H/ar  and  Ptace 


THE   WARMING   OF   THE  HANDS 


I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life. 

WALTER  SAVAGB  LANDOR. 

"  'Tis  cold,"  the  idle  cynic  cries, 

"  The  winds  are  bleak,  the  way  is  bare, 
No  warmth  is  in  the  wintry  skies, 

The  drifts  are  everywhere ; 
And  we  are  stung  with  shafts  of  sleet, 

And  smitten  by  the  breath  of  frost ; 
On  life's  cold  beaches  tempest-beat 

The  curdled  seas  are  tossed." 
Ah,  good  man,  leave  the  icy  sands, 

The  wintry  shore  and  sea  at  strife  ; 
Stretch  forth  your  palms,  and  warm  both  hands 

Before  the  fire  of  life. 

Good  man,  'tis  not  the  wintry  skies, 
'Tis  not  the  frozen  mountains  old  ; 

Within,  within,  your  torpor  lies, 
Your  heart  within  is  cold. 

Dulled  by  the  blighting  fogs  that  roll 
Around  the  lowland  fens  of  doubt, 


The  Warming  of  the  Hands  129 

Upon  the  hearthstone  of  your  soul 

The  fires  have  all  gone  out. 
Let  once  again  the  blackened  brands 

Feel  the  warm  flames'  aspiring  strife  — 
Stretch  forth  your  arms,  and  warm  both  hands 

Before  the  fire  of  life. 

Upon  the  hearthstone  of  the  soul 

Still  let  the  genial  flame  burn  clear  — 
Without  the  surly  tempests  roll 

And  blast  the  ruined  year ; 
Without  the  storms  roar  far  and  wide, 

The  ruffian  winds  are  fierce  and  strong  — 
Around  the  heart's  warm  ingleside 

Is  heard  the  voice  of  song. 
The  warmth  within  the  soul  withstands 

The  outward  winter's  angry  strife ; 
Heap  up  the  blaze,  and  warm  both  hands 

Before  the  fire  of  life. 

You  cynic  of  the  drifted  snow, 

The  blasted  fields,  the  barren  sand, 
Ah,  there  are  vales  where  zephyrs  blow 

Their  fragrance  round  the  land ; 
Where  the  deep  rose's  swelling  breast 

Drinks  beauty  from  the  summer  air, 
And  where  the  laughing  meads  are  dressed 

In  robes  of  maiden-hair. 


i 3°  Songs  of  War  ami  Peace 

And  life  is  sweet  in  those  glad  lands, 
The.  air  with  summer  scents  is  rife  ; 

Go  taste  its  warmth,  and  warm  both  hands 
Before  the  fire  of  life. 

The  snow  is  in  your  wintry  sense, 

The  ice  is  in  your  frozen  heart ; 
Then  drive  December's  torpor  hence, 

And  see  the  mayflowers  start. 
Behold !     The  pageant  of  the  spring 

Sweeps  down  the  music-haunted  glen, 
And  songs  of  praise  the  woodlands  sing, 

And  all  hearts  cry,  "  Amen." 
It  is  the  heart's  own  ingle  brands 

Make  summer  peace  of  winter's  strife ; 
Stretch  forth  your  palms,  and  warm  both  hands 

Before  the  fire  of  life. 


The  Pedigree  of  the  Dollars  131 


THE  PEDIGREE   OF  THE  DOLLARS 


TEN  good  one-dollar  bills  one  day 
Within  a  good  man's  wallet  lay. 

And  he  resolved  (so  good  was  he) 
To  trace  each  dollar's  pedigree; 

And  not  to  spend  a  single  bill 
That  bore  a  stain  of  wrong  or  ill. 

So  like  a  sleuth  he  followed  back 
Each  dollar  bill  upon  its  track. 

II 

Bill  Number  One  he  found  was  made 
In  a  dishonest  jockey  trade ; 

And  Two  a  grocer  made  of  late 
By  overcharge  and  underweight ; 

And  Three  was  made  through  watered  milk, 
And  Four  by  selling  damaged  silk; 


132  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

And  Number  Five  a  sweater  made 
Through  starving  women  underpaid; 

And  Six  was  made  in  dens  of  shame, 
And  Seven  in  a  gambling  game; 

And  Number  Eight  he  found  to  be 
The  price  of  wretched  perjury  ; 

And  Nine  was  from  a  robber's  clan, 
Ten  stolen  from  a  murdered  man 


in 

Our  good  man  would  not  spend  again 
This  money  dark  with  many  a  stain, 

And  so  he  yielded  up  his  breath, 
And  with  his  money  starved  to  death. 

Ten  good  one-dollar  bills  that  day 
Within  that  dead  man's  wallet  lay. 

They'd  never  found  a  man,  ah  me ! 
Who'd  used  them  half  as  ill  as  he. 


On  the  Door-Knob  133 


ON  THE  DOOR-KNOB 


DEATH'S  hand  is  like  a  brother's  hand  when  stretched 

toward  one  that's  old, 
When  resting  on  the  white  thin  locks,  the  bowed  and 

burdened  back ; 
But  to  warm  youth  his  heavy  hand  is  very,  very 

cold :  — 
The  white  crape  on  the  door-knob  is  darker  than  the 

black. 

Ah,  many  a  tired  world-dimmed  eye  has  seen  Death's 

face  and  smiled, 
And  followed  toward  his  beckoning  hand  and  cared 

not  to  turn  back  ; 
But  why  should  this  stern  stranger  guest  approach 

the  little  child  ?  — 
The  white  crape  on  the  door-knob  is  darker  than 

the  black. 

The  black  crape  on  the  door-knob  makes  grave  the 

careless  eye, 
And  gives  the  dullest  heart  a  sense  of  life's  eternal 

lack, 


i 34  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

The  black  crape  on  the  door-knob  awes  every  passer 
by:- 

But  the  white  crape  on  the  door-knob  is  darker  than 
the  black. 


An  Inspector  135 


AN  INSPECTOR 


For  many  years  I  was  self-appointed  inspector  of  snow-storms  and 
rain-storms,  and  did  my  duty  faithfully. 

THOREAU. 

I'M  an  inspector  on  my  rounds 

For  what  I  can  detect ; 
Forever,  tireless,  night  and  day, 

Inspectors  should  inspect. 
A  spy,  a  spotter  keen,  am  I, 

Whose  business  'tis  to  pry 
Into  the  secrets  of  the  earth, 

The  ocean,  and  the  sky. 
I'm  out  on  my  detective  trail, 

And  work  the  whole  year  through, 
And  in  my  business  hitherto 

I've  learned  a  thing  or  two. 

Ah,  there  are  mighty  goings-on 
Where  mighty  secrets  lurk ; 

My  business  'tis  to  hide  myself, 
And  watch  the  whole  thing  work. 

A  few  revealments  from  the  sea, 
A  few,  too,  from  the  sky, 


1 36  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

And  many  secrets  from  the  stars 

And  from  the  winds  have  I. 
And  there  are  whisperings  from  the  fields, 

And  tattlings  from  the  mere ; 
And  'tis  my  trick  to  hide  myself, 

Keep  still,  and  overhear. 

And,  do  you  know,  a  little  flower 

Has  secrets  to  rehearse, 
And  tales  of  wonder  from  the  soul 

Of  the  great  universe  ? 
And,  if  you  once  could  understand 

The  whisperings  of  the  grass, 
And  muffled  murmurs  of  the  flags 

That  grow  in  the  morass, 
You'd  hear  the  secret  of  the  soul 

That  lives  in  earth  and  star, 
And  learn  its  inner  mystery, 

And  know  things  as  they  are. 

And,  could  a  man  go  in  the  woods 

And  overhear  the  trees, 
And  hide  himself  within  the  cliffs 

And  listen  to  the  seas, 
And  could  authentically  translate 

The  language  of  the  brook, 
He'd  learn  some  thoughts  not  hitherto 

Put  down  in  any  book. 


An  Inspector  *37 

Could  he  translate  the  mountain  winds, 

Their  voices  manifold, 
He'd  get  some  thoughts,  perchance,  too  great 

For  any  book  to  hold. 

So,  an  inspector  of  the  winds, 

Detective  of  the  sky, 
Investigator  of  the  brooks 

And  hills  and  woods,  am  I. 
I  have  no  shame  to  spy  about 

And  listen  far  and  near, 
For  Nature  has  no  secret  thought 

That's  bad  for  me  to  hear. 
I  seek  the  secret  of  the  soul 

That  lives  in  earth  and  star, 
To  learn  its  inner  mystery, 

And  know  things  as  they  are. 


138  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


THE  MAN  WHO   UNDERSTOOD  MAN 


THERE  was  a  man  who  understood  music, 

And  right  at  the  very  next  door 
There  was  a  man  who  understood  science  — 

And  neither  knew  anything  more. 
And  next  to  him  was  a  metaphysician 

Of  deep  psychological  lore, 
And  next  to  him  was  a  great  theologian  — 

And  neither  knew  anything  more. 
And  all  around  these  was  a  business  crew, 
Who   attended   to   business  —  and   that's  all  they 
knew. 

And  it  happened  the  man  who  understood  music 

Was  the  dreariest  kind  of  bore  — 
A  bore  to  the  man  who  understood  science, 

Who  lived  at  the  very  next  door. 
And  they  both  were  bores  to  the  metaphysician, 

And  both  were  incurably  dreary ; 
And  all  of  the  three  made  the  great  theologian 

Most  unintermittently  weary. 
And  the  men  all  around  them,  the  business  crew, 
With  none  of  the  four  had  the  first  thing  to  do. 


Tbe  Man  who  Understood  Man         139 

For  the  musical  man  told  the  scientist  man 

All  the  musical  lore  that  he  knew ; 
And  the  scientist  man  did  the  musical  man 

With  his  scientist  volleys  pursue. 
And  every  day  did  the  great  theologian 

The  metaphysician  assail, 
That  he  might  disembogue  in  his  palpitant  ear 

His  long  metaphysical  tale. 
For  every  one  reached  for  the  other  one's  ear  — 
All  wanted  to  talk  and  none  wanted  to  hear. 

And  often  it  happened  the  metaphysician 

To  the  business  people  would  rant 
Of  Spencer,  Spinoza,  Heraclitus,  Plato, 

Protagoras,  Schelling,  and  Kant. 
And  the  business  men,  while  the  metaphysician 

Through  his  logical  labyrinth  glides, 
Are  thinking  of  dry  goods  and  leather  and  lumber 

And  hardware  and  horses  and  hides. 
Each  overstretched  intellect  uttered  his  word  — 
And  every  one  lectured  and  nobody  heard. 

But  there  was  a  man  who  understood  man,  sir, 

And  he  never  knew  anything  more. 
They   all    poured  their  wisdom   in   showers   upon 
him  — 

He  begged  they'd  continue  to  pour. 


140  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 

"  Oh,  tell  me  of  music,  and  tell  me  of  science, 

And  deep  metaphysical  lore." 
And  he'd  sit  and  he'd  listen  in  wondering  silence, 

And  hungrily  ask  them  for  more. 
And  they  made  him  the  leader  of  all  their  clan  — 
This  wise  ignoramus  who  understood  man. 

This  wise  ignoramus  who  understood  man,  sir, 

Seemed  raptured,  astounded,  and  dazed  ; 
At  the  width  and  the  wealth  of  their  wise  erudition 

He'd  sit  in  deep  wonder  amazed  ! 
And  he  gulped  all  the  flood  of  their  deep-flowing 
knowledge 

In  hungry  voracity  down ; 
So  he  came  to  the  town  where  these  other  men  lived, 

And  became  the  first  man  of  the  town. 
And  they  thought  him  the  deepest  of  all  their  clan  — 
This  wise  ignoramus  who  understood  man. 


A  Thought  141 


A    THOUGHT 


THE  world  was  bleak  and  empty  and  cold, 
And  wretched  and  hopeless  and  very  old ; 
God  gave  me  a  Thought  —  a  new  world  grew  • 
The  Thought  re-created  the  world  anew. 


142  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


1898   AND   1562 


THE  evening  and  the  morning  have  joined  in  fight 

at  last. 
Around  the  Western  islands  the  Old  shall  fight  the 

New; 

Columbia  and  Hispania,  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
And  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Ninety-eight   fights 
Fifteen  Sixty-two. 

The   Nation   of  the    Forward   Look    that  sees  the 

heights  ahead 
Fights  with  the  Backward  Glancing  Realm  that 

sees  the  tombs  behind. 
And  who  shall  doubt  the  conflict  of  the  Quick  and 

of  the  Dead, 
Of  the  Leaders  with  the  Laggards  of  Mankind  ? 

To-day  joins  fight  with  Yesterday ;   the   mediaeval 

years 

Are  grappling  with  the  Modern,  and  the  Old  as 
sails  the  New. 


and  1562  143 

But  who,  who  fears  the  issue  ?     Where's  the  trem 
bling  soul  that  fears 

When  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Ninety-eight  fights 
Fifteen  Sixty-two  ? 


144  Songs  of  War  tuui  Peace 


A    CONTRAST 


THE  prairies  flaunt  with  grain  on  every  hand  ; 
The  cornfields'  emerald  banners  proudly  flare 
Like  flags  of  triumph  on  the  summer  air ; 

The  orchards  in  their  fruited  fulness  stand ; 

Each  breeze  with  harvest  promises  is  bland  ; 
The  lushness  of  a  million  meadows  fair 
Exhales  its  odorous  blessing  everywhere, 

And  careless  plenty  lolls  through  all  the  land. 

But  strong  men  starve,  and  dying  infants  draw 
From  breasts  of  dying  mothers,  whose  wan  looks, 
Pain-disciplined,  meet  death's  without  a  fear, — 
To  hunger's  eye  death  loses  all  his  awe. 

And  here,  ye  deep-browed  writers  of  long  books, 
Look  ye !  there's  stuff  for  many  a  folio  here. 


The  Blossoming  of  Igdrasil  145 


THE  BLOSSOMING   OF  IGDRASIL 


WHY  ended  not  the  world  when  Shakespeare  died  ? 

When  the  old  World-Tree's  topmost  bloom  uprears 

And  shows  the  perfect  flower  that  hath  no  peers, 
Slow  fate's  consummate  bloom  and  darling  pride, 
Why  longer  should  its  flowerless  trunk  abide  ? 

Why  lengthen  out,  sport  of  the  high  gods'  jeers, 

The  anti-climax  of  its  after  years 
In  bloomless  barrenness  unjustified  ? 

Ah,  me,  the  World -Tree's  root  strikes  very  deep 
Down  to  the  midmost  core  of  central  strength, 
And  draws  its  life-sap  through  long  winding 

ways: 

New  life  some  day  shall  through  its  branches  creep, 
And  on  its  topmost  bough  shall  bloom  at  length 
Another  Shakespeare  —  after  many  days. 


146  Songs  of  War  and  Peace 


THE    VOICES  OF  THE   TIDES 


"  I  HEAR  the  Voices  when  the  tide  comes  in," 
Said  the  old  sailor  standing  on  the  shore. 
On  this  bleak  coast,  above  this  wintry  roar, 
I  hear  the  winds  of  summer  and  the  din 
Of  bird-songs  in  the  palm-trees.      I  have  been  * 
Among  the  Isles  of  Beauty ;  and  once  more 
The  summer  seas  on  Eden  headlands  pour  — 
I  hear  the  Voices  when  the  tide  comes  in. 

The  tide  of  time  flows  in  upon  the  world, 

And  breaks  on  Northern  headlands  white  with 

snow, 

And  some  there  be  who  hear  discordant  din ; 
But  close  I  listen  where  its  waves  are  hurled, 
And  I  hear  music  from  far  islands  blow  — 
I  hear  the  Voices  when  the  tides  come  in. 


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